THE   NOVELS  OF 


IVAN    TURGENEV 


THE    NOVELS    OF 
IVAN    TURGENEV 


I.  RUDIN. 

II.  A  HOUSE  OF  GENTLEFOLK. 

III.  ON  THE  EVE. 

IV.  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN. 
V.  SMOKE. 

VI.  &  VII.  VIRGIN  SOIL.      2  vols, 

VIII.  &  IX.  A  SPORTSMAN'S  SKETCHES.    2  vols. 

X.  DREAM  TALES  AND  PROSE  POEMS. 

XL  THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING,  ETC. 

XII.  A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES. 

XIII.  THE   DIARY   OF    A    SUPERFLUOUS 

MAN,  ETC. 

XIV.  A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER,  ETC. 
XV.  THE  JEW,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:    WILLIAM   HEINEMANN 


<tyy/?/7^e^)^isa/i.e/ 


THE  NOVELS  OF  IVAN  TURGENEV 

ILLUSTRATED     EDITION 

A   LEAR    OF 
THE    STEPPES 

ETC. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  RUSSIAN 

By 
CONSTANCE   GARNETT 

mmm  of  cmiFoeiiiii 

DEPAKTMENi  OF 

UNIVERSITY  EXTENSION. 


NEW  YORK:  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:    WILLIAM   HEINEMANN 

MCMVI 


Printed  in  England 


All  rights  reserved 


'   •   •     • 

*  %    «    •   ^« 

•  •     •    •  ^  , 


..♦•.•  I ':  •   . 


INTRODUCTION 


lN  examination  of  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes  is  of 
special  interest  to  authors,  as  the  story  is  so 
xquisite  in  its  structure,  so  overwhelming  in 
s  effects,  that  it  exposes  the  artificiality  of  the 
reat  majority  of  the  clever  works  of  art  in 
ction.  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes  is  great  in  art 
ecause  it  is  a  living  organic  whole,  springing 
•om  the  deep  roots  of  life  itself;  and  the 
mumerable  works  of  art  that  are  fabricated 
nd  pasted  together  from  an  ingenious  plan — 
rorks  that  do  not  grow  from  the  inevitability 
f  things — appear  at  once  insignificant  or  false 
1  comparison. 

In  examining  the  art,  the  artist  will  note  that 
rurgenev's  method  of  introducing  his  story  is 
.  lesson  in  sincerity.  Harlov,  the  Lear  of  the 
tory,  is  brought  forward  with  such  force  on  the 
hreshold  that  all  eyes  resting  on  his   figure 


3  G  (5 129 


% 


INTRODUCTION 

cannot  but  follow  his  after  movements.  And 
absolute  conviction  gained,  all  the  artist's  artful 
after-devices  and  subtle  presentations  and  side- 
lights on  the  story  are  not  apparent  under  the 
straightforward  ease  and  the  seeming  careless- 
ness with  which  the  narrator  describes  his 
boyish  memories.  Then,  Harlov's  household, 
his  two  daughters,  and  a  crowd  of  minor 
characters,  are  brought  before  us  as  persons  in 
the  tragedy,  and  we  see  that  all  these  people 
are  living  each  from  the  innate  laws  of  his 
being,  apparently  independently  of  the  authors 
scheme.  This  conviction,  that  the  author  has 
no  pre-arranged  plan,  convinces  us  that  in  the 
story  we  are  living  a  piece  of  life  :  here  we  are 
verily  plunging  into  life  itself 

And  the  story  goes  on  flowing  easilyand  natur- 
ally till  the  people  of  the  neighbourhood,  the 
peasants,  the  woods  and  fields  around,  are  known 
by  us  as  intimately  as  is  any  neighbourhood  in 
life.  Suddenly  a  break — the  tragedy  is  upon 
us.  Suddenly  the  terrific  forces  that  underlie 
human  life,  even  the  meanest  of  human  lives, 
burst  on  us  astonished  and  breathless,  pre- 
cisely as  a  tragedy  comes  up  to  the  surface  and 
bursts  on  us  in  real  life  :  everybody  runs  about 
dazed,  annoyed,  futile ;  we  watch  the  other 
people  sustaining  their  own   individuality  in- 


'^ 


VI 


INTRODUCTION 

adequately  in  the  face  of  the  monstrous  new 
events  which  go  their  fatal  way  logically,  events 
which  leave  the  people  huddled  and  useless 
and  gasping.  And  destruction  having  burst 
out  of  life,  life  slowly  returns  to  its  old  grooves 
— with  a  difference  to  us,  the  difference  in  the 
relation  of  people  one  to  another  that  a  death  or 
a  tragedy  always  leaves  to  the  survivors.  Mar- 
vellous in  its  truth  is  Turgenev's  analysis  of 
the  situation  after  Harlov's  death,  marvellous 
is  the  simple  description  of  the  neighbourhood's 
attitude  to  the  Harlov  family,  and  marvellous 
is  the  lifting  of  the  scene  on  the  after-life  of 
Harlov's  daughters.  In  the  pages  (pages  140, 
141,  146,  147)  on  these  women,  Turgenev 
flashes  into  the  reader's  mind  an  extraordinary 
sense  of  the  inevitability  of  these  women's 
natures,  of  their  innate  growth  fashioning  their 
after-lives  as  logically  as  a  beech  puts  out 
beech-leaves  and  an  oak  oak-leaves.  Through 
Turgenev's  single  glimpse  at  their  fortunes  one 
knows  the  whole  intervening  fifteen  years  ;  he 
has  carried  us  into  a  new  world :  yet  it  is  the 
old  world  ;  one  needs  to  know  no  more.  It  is 
life  arbitrary  but  inevitable,  life  so  clarified  by 
art  that  it  is  absolutely  interpreted  ;  but  life 
with    all    the   sense   of    mystery   that   nature 

breathes  around  it  in  its  ceaseless  growth. 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 


II 


This  sense  of  inevitability  and  of  the 
mystery  of  life  which  Turgenev  gives  us  in 
A  Lear  of  the  Steppes  is  the  highest  demand  we 
can  make  from  art.  Ada,  the  last  story  in  the 
present  volume,  though  it  gives  us  a  sense  of 
mystery,  is  not  inevitable  :  the  end  is  faked  to 
suit  the  artist's  purpose,  and  thus,  as  in  other 
ways,  it  is  far  inferior  to  Lear.  Faust,  the 
second  story,  has  consummate  charm  in  its 
strange  atmosphere  of  the  supernatural  ming- 
ling with  things  earthly,  but  it  is  not,  as  is 
Lear^  life  seen  from  the  surface  to  the  revealed 
depths  ;  it  is  a  revelation  of  the  strange  forces 
in  life,  presented  beautifully;  but  it  is  rather  an 
idea,  a  problem  to  be  worked  out  by  certain 
characters,  than  a  piece  of  life  inevitable  and 
growing.  When  an  artist  creates  in  us  the 
sense  of  inevitability,  then  his  work  is  at  its 
highest,  and  is  obeying  nature's  law  of  growth, 
unfolding  from  out  itself  as  inevitably  as  a  tree 
or  a  flower  or  a  human  being  unfolds  from  out 
itself  Turgenev  at  his  highest  never  quits 
nature,  yet  he  always  uses  the  surface,  and  what 
is  apparent,  to  disclose  her  most  secret  prin- 
ciples, her  deepest  potentialities,  her  inmost 
laws  of  being,  and  whatever   he  presents  he 


via 


I 


INTRODUCTION 

presents  clearly  and  simply.  This  combination 
of  powers  marks  only  the  few  supreme  artists. 
Even  great  masters  often  fail  in  perfect  natural- 
ness :  Tolstoi's  The  Death  of  Ivan  Ilytch^  for 
example,  one  of  the  most  powerful  stories  ever 
written,  has  too  little  that  is  typical  of  the 
whole  of  life,  too  much  that  is  strained  towards 
the  general  purpose  of  the  story,  to  be  really 
natural.  Turgenev's  special  feat  in  fiction  is 
that  his  characters  reveal  themselves  by  the 
most  ordinary  details  of  their  every-day  life ; 
and  while  these  details  are  always  giving  us 
the  whole  life  of  the  people,  and  their  inner  life 
as  well,  the  novel's  significance  is  being  built 
up  simply  out  of  these  details,  built  up  by  the 
same  process,  in  fact,  as  nature  creates  for  us  a 
single  strong  impression  out  of  a  multitude  of 
little  details.  The  Impressionists,  it  is  true,often 
give  us  amazingly  clever  pictures  of  life,  seen 
subtly  and  drawn  naturally ;  but,  in  general, 
their  able  pictures  of  the  way  men  think  and 
act  do  not  reveal  more  than  the  actual  thinking 
and  acting  that  men  betray  to  one  another, — 
they  do  not  betray  the  whole  significance  of 
their  lives  more  than  does  the  daily  life  itself. 
And  so  the  Impressionists  give  pictures  of  life's 
surface,  and  not  interpretations  of  its  eternal 

depths:   they  pass  away  as   portraits   of  the 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

time,  amazingly  felicitous  artistic  portraits. 
But  Turgenev's  power  as  a  poet  comes  in, 
whenever  he  draws  a  commonplace  figure,  to 
make  it  bring  with  it  a  sense  of  the  mystery 
of  its  existence.  In  Lear  the  steward  Kvitsinsky 
plays  a  subsidiary  part ;  he  has  apparently  no 
significance  in  the  story,  and  very  little  is  told 
about  him.  But  who  does  not  perceive  that 
Turgenev  looks  at  and  presents  the  figure  of 
this  man  in  a  manner  totally  different  from  the 
way  any  clever  novelist  of  the  second  rank 
would  look  at  and  use  him  ?  Kvitsinsky,  in 
Turgenev's  hands,  is  an  individual  with  all  the 
individual's  mystery  in  his  glance,  his  coming 
and  going,  his  way  of  taking  things  ;  but  he  is 
a  part  of  the  household's  breath,  of  its  very 
existence;  he  breathes  the  atmosphere  naturally 
and  creates  an  atmosphere  of  his  own.  If 
Hugo  had  created  him  he  would  have  been 
out  of  focus  immediately ;  Balzac  would  have 
described  the  household  minutely,  and  then  let 
Kvitsinsky  appear  as  a  separate  entity  in  it ; 
the  Impressionists  would  sketch  him  as  a  living 
picture,  a  part  of  the  household,  but  he  would 
remain  as  first  created,  he  would  always  repeat 
the  first  impression  he  makes  on  us,a  certain  man 
in  a  certain  aspect ;  and  they  would  not  give  us 
the  steward  revealing  his  character  imperceptibly 


1 


I 


INTRODUCTION 

from  day  to  day  in  his  minute  actions,  naturally, 
and  little  by  little,  as  this  man  reveals  his. 

It  is  then  in  his  marvellous  sense  of  the 
growth  of  life  that  Turgenev  is  superior  to 
most  of  his  rivals.  Not  only  did  he  observe 
life  minutely  and  comprehensively,  but  he  repro- 
duces it  as  a  constantly  growing  phenomenon, 
growing  naturally,  not  accidentally  or  arbi- 
trarily. For  example,  in  A  House  of  Gentle- 
folk, take  Lavretsky's  and  Liza's  changes  of 
mood  when  they  are  falling  in  love  one  with 
another :  it  is  nature  herself  in  them  changing 
very  delicately  and  insensibly  ;  we  feel  that  the 
whole  picture  is  alive,  not  an  effect  cut  out 
from  life,  and  cut  off  from  it  at  the  same  time, 
like  a  bunch  of  cut  flowers,  an  effect  which 
many  clever  novelists  often  give  us.  And  in 
Lear  we  feel  that  the  life  in  Harlov's  village 
is  still  going  on,  growing  yonder,  still  growing 
with  all  its  mysterious  sameness  and  changes, 
when,  in  Turgenev's  last  words,  'The  story- 
teller ceased,  and  we  talked  a  little  longer,  and 
then  parted,  each  to  his  home.' 


Ill 

Turgenev's  sympathy  with  women  and  his 

unequalled  power  of  drawing  them,  not  merely 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 

as  they  appear  to  men,  but  as  they  appear  to 
each  other,  has  been  dwelt  on  by  many  writers. 
And  in  truth,  of  the  three  leading  quaUties 
into  which  his  artistic  powers  may  be  arbitrarily 
analysed,  the  most  apparent  is  precisely  that 
delicate  feminine  intuition  and  sensitive  emo- 
tional consciousness  into  all  the  nuances  of 
personal  relations  that  women  possess  in  life 
and  are  never  able  to  put  into  books.  This 
fluid  sympathetic  perception  is  instinctive  in 
Turgenev :  it  is  his  temperament  to  be  sym- 
pathetic or  receptive  to  all  types,  except, 
perhaps,  to  purely  masculine  men  of  action, 
whom  he  never  draws  with  success.  His  tem- 
perament is  bathed  in  a  delicate  emotional 
atmosphere  quivering  with  light,  which  dis- 
closes all  the  infinite  riches  of  the  created 
world,  the  relation  of  each  character  to  its 
particular  universe,  and  the  significance  of  its 
human  fate.  And  this  state  of  soul  or  flow  of 
mood  in  Turgenev  is  creative,  as  when  music 
floats  from  a  distance  to  the  listener,  imme- 
diately the  darkening  fields,  the  rough  coarse 
earth  of  cheap  human  life,  with  all  the  grind 
and  petty  monotony  of  existence,  melt  into 
harmony,  and  life  is  seen  as  a  mysterious 
whole,  not  merely  as  a  puzzling  discrepancy 

of  gaps  and  contradictions  and  days  of  little 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

import.  This  fluid  emotional  consciousness  of 
Turgenev  is  feminine,  inasmuch  as  it  is  a  recep- 
tive, sympathising,  and  harmonising  attitude ; 
but  just  where  the  woman's  faculty  of  recep- 
tiveness  ends,  where  her  perception  fails  to  go 
beyond  the  facts  she  is  alive  to,  Turgenev's 
consciousness  flashes  out  into  the  great  poet's 
creative  world,  with  its  immense  breadth  of 
vision,  force,  and  imagination.  Thus  in  laying 
down  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes  the  reader  is  con- 
scious that  he  is  seeing  past  the  human  life  of 
the  tragedy  on  to  the  limitless  seas  of  exist- 
ence beyond, — he  is  looking  beyond  the  heads 
of  the  moving  human  figures  out  on  to  the  in- 
finite horizon.  Just  where  the  woman's  interest 
would  stop  and  rest  satisfied  with  the  near 
personal  elements  in  the  drama,  Turgenev's 
constructive  poetic  force  sees  the  universal, 
and  in  turn  interprets  these  figures  in  relation 
to  the  far  wider  field  of  the  race,  the  age,  and 
makes  them  symbolical  of  the  deep  forces  of 
all  human  existence. 

And  thus  Turgenev  becomes  a  creator,  origin- 
ating a  world  greater  than  he  received.  His 
creation  of  Bazarov  in  Fathers  and  Children  from 
a  three  hours'  accidental  meeting  with  a  man 
while  on  a  journey,  is  an  extraordinary  instance 

of  how  unerringly  his  vision  created  in  fore- 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION 

thought  a  world  that  was  to  come.  He  accepted 
the  man,  he  was  penetrated  with  the  new  and 
strange  conceptions  of  Hfe  offered,  and  as  a 
poet  he  saw  in  a  flash  the  immense  significance 
to  society  of  this  man's  appearance  in  the  age. 
He  saw  a  new  and  formidable  type  had  arisen 
in  the  nation,  negating  its  traditions,  its  beliefs, 
its  conceptions  ;  and  from  this  solitary  meeting 
with  an  individual,  Turgenev  laid  bare  and 
predicted  the  progress  of  the  most  formidable 
social  and  political  movement  in  modern 
Russia,  predicted  it  and  set  it  forth  in  art, 
a  decade  before  its  birth. 


IV 

In  truth,  Turgenev's  art  at  its  highest  may 

well  be  the  despair  of  artists  who  have  sufficient 

insight  to  understand  wherein  he  excels.     He 

is  rich  in  all  the  gifts,  so  he  penetrates  into 

everything ;    but    it    is   the    perfect   harmony 

existing   between    his    gifts   that   makes   him 

see  everything  in  proportion.     Thus  he  never 

caricatures  ;  he  is  never  too  forcible,  and  never 

too   clever.      He   is   a    great   realist,   and   his 

realism  carries  along  with  it  the  natural  breath 

of  poetry.     His  art  is  highly  complex,  but  its 

expression  is  so  pellucid,  so  simple,  that  we  can 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 

see  only  its  body,  never  the  mechanism  of  its 
body.  His  thought  and  his  emotion  are  blended 
in  one ;  he  interprets  life,  but  always  preserves 
the  atmosphere,  the  glamour,  the  mystery  of 
the  living  thing  in  his  interpretation.  His 
creative  world  arises  spontaneously  from  his 
own  depths — the  mark  of  the  world's  great 
masters.  Never  thinking  of  himself,  he  inspires 
his  readers  with  a  secret  delight  for  the  beauty 
that  he  found  everywhere  in  life.  And  he  never 
shuts  his  eyes  against  the  true. 

EDWARD  GARNETT. 
October  1898. 


XV 


I 


I 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
A    LEAR   OF   THE  STEPPES, 3 

FAUST,  .       - 151 

ACIA, 227 


'I 


I 

i 


i 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

SHAKESPEARE, Frontispiece 

GOETHE, to  face  page  158 

RAPHAEL'S     'GALATEA'     IN     THE 

FARNESINO, ,        „  252 


;f 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

We  were  a  party  of  six,  gathered  together  one 
winter  evening  at  the  house  of  an  old  college 
friend.  The  conversation  turned  on  Shake- 
speare, on  his  types,  and  how  profoundly  and 
truly  they  were  taken  from  the  very  heart  of 
humanity.  We  admired  particularly  their  truth 
to  life,  their  actuality.  Each  of  us  spoke  of  the 
Hamlets,  the  Othellos,  the  Falstaffs,  even  the 
Richard  the  Thirds  and  Macbeths — the  two 
last  only  potentially,  it  is  true,  resembling  their 
prototypes — whom  he  had  happened  to  come 
across. 

'  And  I,  gentlemen,*  cried  our  host,  a  man 
well  past  middle  age,  *  used  to  know  a  King 
Lear ! ' 

*  How  was  that  ?  *  we  questioned  him. 

*Oh,  would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  about 
him?' 

*  Please  do.' 

And  our  friend  promptly  began  his  narrative. 


I 


*All  my  childhood,'  he  began,  *and  early 
youth,  up  to  the  age  of  fifteen,  I  spent  in  the 
country,  on  the  estate  of  my  mother,  a  wealthy 

landowner   in    X province.      Almost    the 

most  vivid  impression,  that  has  remained  in 
my  memory  of  that  far-off  time,  is  the  figure 
1  of  our  nearest  neighbour,  Martin  Petrovitch 
I  Harlov.  Indeed  it  would  be  difficult  for  such 
an  impression  to  be  obliterated :  I  never  in 
my  life  afterwards  met  anything  in  the  least 
like  Harlov.  Picture  to  yourselves  a  man  of 
gigantic  stature.  On  his  huge  carcase  was 
set,  a  little  askew,  and  without  the  least  trace 
of  a  neck,  a  prodigious  head.  A  perfect  hay- 
stack of  tangled  yellowish-grey  hair  stood  up 
i  all  over  it,  growing  almost  down  to  the  bushy 
eyebrows.  On  the  broad  expanse  of  his  purple 
face,  that  looked  as  though  it  had  been  peeled, 
there  protruded  a  sturdy  knobby  nose  ;  diminu- 
tive little  blue  eyes  stared  out  haughtily,  and 
a  mouth  gaped  open  that  was  diminutive  too, 
but  crooked,  chapped,  and  of  the  same  colour  as 
the  rest  of  the  face.     The  voice  that  proceeded 

4 


A  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

from  this  mouth,  though  hoarse,  was  exceed- 
ingly strong  and  resonant.  ...  Its  sound  re- 
called the  clank  of  iron  bars,  carried  in  a  cart 
over  a  badly  paved  road  ;  and  when  Harlov 
spoke,  it  was  as  though  some  one  were  shout- 
ing in  a  high  wind  across  a  wide  ravine.  It 
was  difficult  to  tell  just  what  Harlov's  face 
expressed,  it  was  such  an  expanse.  .  .  .  One 
felt  one  could  hardly  take  it  all  in  at  one 
glance.  But  it  was  not  disagreeable — a  certain 
grandeur  indeed  could  *be  discerned  in  it,  only 
it  was  exceedingly  astounding  and  unusual. 
And  what  hands  he  had — positive  cushions ! 
What  fingers,  what  feet !  I  remember  I  could 
never  gaze  without  a  certain  respectful  awe  at 
the  four-foot  span  of  Martin  Petrovitch's  back, 
at  his  shoulders,  like  millstones.  But  what 
especially  struck  me  was  his  ears  !  They  were 
just  like  great  twists  of  bread,  full  of  bends  and 
curves  ;  his  cheeks  seemed  to  support  them  on 
both  sides.  Martin  Petrovitch  used  to  wear — 
winter  and  summer  alike — a  Cossack  dress  of 
green  cloth,  girt  about  with  a  small  Tcherkess 
strap,  and  tarred  boots.  I  never  saw  a  cravat 
on  him  ;  and  indeed  what  could  he  have  tied 
a  cravat  round  ?  He  breathed  slowly  and 
heavily,  like  a  bull,  but  walked  without  a 
sound.  One  might  have  imagined  that  having 
got  into  a  room,  he  was  in  constant  fear  of 
upsetting  and  overturning  everything,  and  so 
moved  cautiously  from   place   to  place,  side- 

5 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

ways  for  the  most  part,  as  though  slinking 
by.  He  was  possessed  of  a  strength  truly 
Herculean,  and  in  consequence  enjoyed  great 
renown  in  the  neighbourhood.  Our  common 
people  retain  to  this  day  their  reverence  for 
Titanic  heroes.  Legends  were  invented  about 
him.  They  used  to  recount  that  he  had  one 
day  met  a  bear  in  the  forest  and  had  almost 
vanquished  him ;  that  having  once  caught  a 
J  thief  in  his  beehouse,  he  had  flung  him,  horse 
and  cart  and  all,  over  the  hedge,  and  so  on. 
Harlov  himself  never  boasted  of  his  strength. 

*  If  my  right  hand  is  blessed,'  he  used  to  say, 

*  so  it  is  God's  will  it  should  be ! '  He  was 
proud,  only  he  did  not  take  pride  in  his 
strength,  but  in  his  rank,  his  descent,  his 
common  sense. 

'Our  family's  descended  from  the  Swede 
Harlus,'  he  used  to  maintain.  *  In  the  princely 
reign  of  Ivan  Vassilievitch  the  Dark  (fancy  how 
long  ago !)  he  came  to  Russia,  and  that  Swede 

1  Harlus  did  not  wish  to  be  a  Finnish  count — 
but  he  wished  to  be  a  Russian  nobleman,  and 
he  was  inscribed  in  the  golden  book.  It's  from 
him  we  Harlovs  are  sprung !  .  .  .  And  by  the 
same  token,  all  of  us  Harlovs  are  born  flaxen- 
haired,  with  light  eyes  and  clean  faces,  because 
we  're  children  of  the  snow  !  * 

*But,  Martin  Petrovitch,'  I  once  tried  to 
object,  *  there  never  was  an  Ivan  Vassilievitch 
the  Dark.    Then  was  an  Ivan  Vassilievitch  the 

6 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Terrible.  The  Dark  was  the  name  given  to 
the  great  prince  Vassily  Vassilievitch.' 

'What  nonsense  will  you  talk  next!' 
Harlov  answered  serenely;  'since  I  say  so, 
so  it  was  ! ' 

One  day  my  mother  took  it  into  her  head  to 
commend  him  to  his  face  for  his  really  remark- 
able incorruptibility. 

*  Ah,  Natalia  Nikolaevna!'  he  protested 
almost  angrily ;  *  what  a  thing  to  praise  me 
for,  really  !  We  gentlefolk  can't  be  otherwise ; 
so  that  no  churl,  no  low-born,  servile  creature 
dare  even  imagine  evil  of  us  !  I  am  a  Harlov, 
my  family  has  come  down  from ' — here  he 
pointed  up  somewhere  very  high  aloft  in  the 
ceiling — 'and  me  not  be  honest!  How  is  it 
possible?* 

Another  time  a  high  official,  who  had  come 
into  the  neighbourhood  and  was  staying 
with  my  mother,  fancied  he  could  make  fun 
of  Martin  Petrovitch.  The  latter  had  again 
referred  to  the  Swede  Harlus,  who  came  to 
Russia  .  .  . 

'In  the  days  of  King  Solomon?'  the  official 
interrupted. 

*  No,  not  of  King  Solomon,  but  of  the  great 
Prince  Ivan  Vassilievitch  the  Dark.' 

'But  I  imagine,'  the  official  pursued,  'that 
your  family  is  much  more  ancient,  and  goes 
back  to  antediluvian  days,  when  there  were 
still  mastodons  and  megatheriums  about' 

7 


A  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

These  scientific  names  were  absolutely  mean- 
ingless to  Martin  Petrovitch ;  but  he  realised 
that  the  dignitary  was  laughing  at  him. 

'  May  be  so,'  he  boomed,  '  our  family  is,  no 
doubt,  very  ancient ;  in  those  days  when  my 
ancestor  was  in  Moscow,  they  do  say  there  was 
as  great  a  fool  as  your  excellency  living  there, 
and  such  fools  are  not  seen  twice  in  a  thousand 
years.' 

The  high  official  was  in  a  furious  rage,  while 
Harlov  threw  his  head  back,  stuck  out  his  chin, 
snorted  and  disappeared.  Two  days  later,  he 
came  in  again.  My  mother  began  reproaching 
him.  'It's  a  lesson  for  him,  ma'am,'  inter- 
posed Harlov,  *  not  to  fly  off  without  knowing 
what  he 's  about,  to  find  out  whom  he  has  to 
deal  with  first.  He  's  young  yet,  he  must  be 
taught.'  The  dignitary  was  almost  of  the 
same  age  as  Harlov ;  but  this  Titan  was  in 
the  habit  of  regarding  every  one  as  not  fully 
grown  up.  He  had  the  greatest  confidence  in 
himself  and  was  afraid  of  absolutely  no  one. 
*Can  they  do  anything  to  me?  Where  on 
earth  is  the  man  that  can  ? '  he  would  ask,  and 
suddenly  he  would  go  off  into  a  short  but 
deafening  guffaw. 


8 


II 


My  mother  was  exceedingly  particular  in  her 
choice  of  acquaintances,  but  she  made  Harlov 
welcome  with  special  cordiality  and  allowed 
him  many  privileges.  Twenty-five  years  before,  \ 
he  had  saved  her  life  by  holding  up  her  carriage 
on  the  edge  of  a  deep  precipice,  down  which 
the  horses  had  already  fallen.  The  traces  and 
straps  of  the  harness  broke,  but  Martin  Petro- 
vitch  did  not  let  go  his  hold  of  the  wheel  he 
had  grasped,  though  the  blood  spurted  out 
under  his  nails.  My  mother  had  arranged  his 
marriage.  She  chose  for  his  wife  an  orphan 
girl  of  seventeen,  who  had  been  brought  up  in 
her  house ;  he  was  over  forty  at  the  time. 
Martin  Petrovitch's  wife  was  a  frail  creature — 
they  said  he  carried  her  into  his  house  in  the 
palms  of  his  hands — and  she  did  not  live  long 
with  him.  She  bore  him  two  daughters,  how- 
ever. After  her  death,  my  mother  continued 
her  good  offices  to  Martin  Petrovitch.  She 
placed  his  elder  daughter  in  the  district  school, 
and  afterwards  found  her  a  husband,  and 
already  had  another  in  her  eye  for  the  second. 

9 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Harlov  was  a  fairly  good  manager.  He  had  a 
little  estate  of  nearly  eight  hundred  acres,  and 
had  built  on  to  his  place  a  little,  and  the  way  the 
peasants  obeyed  him  is  indescribable.  Owing 
to  his  stoutness,  Harlov  scarcely  ever  went 
anywhere  on  foot :  the  earth  did  not  bear  him. 
He  used  to  go  everywhere  in  a  low  racing 
droshky,  himself  driving  a  rawboned  mare, 
thirty  years  old,  with  a  scar  on  her  shoulder, 
from  a  wound  which  she  had  received  in  the 
battle  of  Borodino,  under  the  quartermaster  of 
a  cavalry  regiment.  This  mare  was  always 
somehow  lame  in  all  four  legs ;  she  could  not 
go  at  a  walking  pace,  but  could  only  change  from 
a  trot  to  a  canter.  She  used  to  eat  mugwort 
and  wormwood  along  the  hedges,  which  I  have 
never  noticed  any  other  horse  do.  I  remember 
I  always  used  to  wonder  how  such  a  broken- 
down  nag  could  draw  such  a  fearful  weight.  I 
won't  venture  to  repeat  how  many  hundred- 
weight were  attributed  to  our  neighbour.  In 
the  droshky  behind  Martin  Petrovitch's  back 
perched  his  swarthy  page,  Maximka.  With  his 
face  and  whole  person  squeezed  close  up  to  his 
master,  and  his  bare  feet  propped  on  the  hind 
axle  bar  of  the  droshky,  he  lopked  like  a  little 
leaf  or  worm  which  had  clung  by  chance  to  the 
gigantic  carcase  before  him.  This  same  page 
boy  used  once  a  week  to  shave  Martin  Petro- 
vitch.  He  used,  so  they  said,  to  stand  on  a 
table  to  perform  this  operation.     Some  jocose 

lO 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

persons  averred  that  he  had  to  run  round  his 
master's  chin.  Harlov  did  not  like  staying 
long  at  home,  and  so  one  might  often  see  him 
driving  about  in  his  invariable  equipage,  with 
the  reins  in  one  hand  (the  other  he  held 
smartly  on  his  knee  with  the  elbow  crooked 
upwards),  with  a  diminutive  old  cap  on  the  very 
top  of  his  head.  He  looked  boldly  about  him 
with  his  little  bear-like  eyes,  shouted  in  a  voice 
of  thunder  to  all  the  peasants,  artisans,  and 
tradespeople  he  met.  Priests  he  greatly  dis- 
liked, and  he  would  send  vigorous  abjurations 
after  them  when  he  met  them.  One  day  on 
overtaking  me  (I  was  out  for  a  stroll  with  my 
gun),  he  hallooed  at  a  hare  that  lay  near  the 
road  in  such  a  way  that  I  could  not  get  the 
roar  and  ring  of  it  out  of  my  ears  all  day. 


/ 


IX 


Ill 


My  mother,  as  I  have  already  stated,  made 
Martin  Petrovitch  very  welcome.  She  knew 
what  a  profound  respect  he  entertained  for  her 
person.  *  She  is  a  real  gentlewoman,  one  of 
our  sort,'  was  the  way  he  used  to  refer  to  her. 
He  used  to  style  her  his  benefactress,  while  she 
saw  in  him  a  devoted  giant,  who  would  not 
have  hesitated  to  face  a  whole  mob  of  peasants 
in  defence  of  her  ;  and  although  no  one  foresaw 
the  barest  possibility  of  such  a  contingency, 
•  still,  to  my  mother's  notions,  in  the  absence  of 
I  a  husband — she  had  early  been  left  a  widow — 
such  a  champion  as  Martin  Petrovitch  was  not 
to  be  despised.  And  besides,  he  was  a  man  of 
upright  character,  who  curried  favour  with 
no  one,  never  borrowed  money  or  drank  spirits  ; 
and  no  fool  either,  though  he  had  received  no 
sort  of  education.  My  mother  trusted  Martin 
Petrovitch  :  when  she  took  it  into  her  head  to. 
make  her  will,  she  asked  him  to  witness  it,  and 
he  drove  home  expressly  to  fetch  his  round 
iron-rimmed  spectacles,  without  which  he  could 
not  write.    And  with  spectacles  on  nose,  he 

12 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

succeeded,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  with  many 

gasps  and  groans  and  great  effort,  in  inscribing 

his  Christian  name,  father's  name,  and  surname 

and  his  rank  and  designation,  tracing  enormous 

quadrangular  letters,  with  tails  and  flourishes. 

Having   completed   this   task,   he   declared  he 

was  tired  out,  and  that  writing  for  him  was  as 

hard  work  as  catching  fleas.     Yes,  my  mother 

had  a  respect  for  him  ...  he  was  not,  however, 

admitted  beyond  the  dining-room  in  our  house. 

He  carried  a  very  strong  odour   about   with 

him  ;  there  was  a  smell  of  the  earth,  of  decaying  . 

forest,   of   marsh   mud   about  him.      'He's    a 

forest-demoii !  *   my  old    nurse  would    declare. 

At  dinner  a  special  table  used  to  be  laid  apart 

in  a  corner  for  Martin  Petrovitch,  and  he  was 

not   offended  at   that,  he   knew  other   people 

were  ill  at  ease  sitting  beside  him,  and  he  too 

had  greater  freedom  in  eating.     And  he  did 

eat  too,  as  no  one,  I  imagine,  has  eaten  since  the 

days  of  Polyphemus.     At  the  very  beginning  CfC-^fS' 

of  dinner,  by  way  of  a  precautionary  measure,    ' 

they  always  served  him  a  pot   of  some   four 

pounds  of  porridge,    'else  you'd  eat  me  out 

of  house  and  home,'  my  mother  used  to  say. 

*That    I   should,   ma'am,'    Martin    Petrovitch 

would  respond,  grinning. 

My  mother  liked  to  hear  his  reflections  on 
any  topic  connected  with  the  land.  But  she 
could  not  support  the  sound  of  his  voice  for 
long  together.     *  What 's  the  meaning  of  it,  my 

13 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

good  sir!*  she  would  exclaim;  *you  might 
take  something  to  cure  yourself  of  it,  really  I 
You  simply  deafen  me.  Such  a  trumpet- 
blast  ! ' 

*  Natalia  Nikolaevna !  benefactress !  *  Martin 
Petrovitch  would  rejoin,  as  a  rule, '  I  'm  not  re- 
sponsible for  my  throat.  And  what  medicine 
could  have  any  effect  on  me — kindly  tell  me 
that?     I  'd  better  hold  my  tongue  for  a  bit* 

In  reality,  I  imagine,  no  medicine  could 
have  affected  Martin  Petrovitch.  He  was 
never  ill. 

He  was  not  good  at  telling  stories,  and  did 
not  care  for  it.  *  Much  talking  gives  me 
asthma,*  he  used  to  remark  reproachfully.  It 
was  only  when  one  got  him  on  to  the  year 
1812 — he  had  served  in  the  militia,  and  had 
received  a  bronze  ,  medal,  which  he  used  to 
wear  on  festive  occasions  attached  to  a  Vladi- 
mir ribbon — when  one  questioned  him  about 
the  French,  that  he  would  relate  some  few 
anecdotes.  He  used,  however,  to  maintain 
stoutly  all  the  while  that  there  never  had  been 
any  Frenchmen,  real  ones,  in  Russia,  only  some 
poor  marauders,  who  had  straggled  over  from 
hunger,  and  that  he  had  given  many  a  good 
drubbing  to  such  rabble  in  the  forests. 


14 


IV 


And  yet  even  this  self-confident,  unflinching 
giant  had  his  moments  of  melancholy  and 
depression.  Without  any  visible  cause  he 
would  suddenly  begin  to  be  sad  ;  he  would 
lock  himself  up  alone  in  his  room,  and  hum — 
positively  hum — like  a  whole  hive  of  bees  ;  or 
he  would  call  his  page  Maximka,  and  tell  him 
to  read  aloud  to  him  out  of  the  solitary  book 
which  had  somehow  found  its  way  into  his 
house,  an  odd  volume  of  Novikovsky's  The 
Worker  at  Leisure^  or  else  to  sing  to  him. 
And  Maximka,  who  by  some  strange  freak  of 
chance,  could  spell  out  print,  syllable  by 
syllable,  would  set  to  work  with  the  usual 
chopping  up  of  the  words  and  transference  of 
the  accent,  bawling  out  phrases  of  the  following 
description  :  'but  man  in  his  wilfulness  draws 
from  this  empty  hypothesis,  which  he  applies 
to  the  animal  kingdom,  utterly  opposite  con- 
clusions. Every  animal  separately,'  he  says, 
*is  not  capable  of  making  me  happy!'  and  so 
on.  Or  he  would  chant  in  a  shrill  little  voice 
a  mournful  song,  of  which  nothing  could  be 
distinguished  but :  *  Ee  . . .  eee  . . .  ee  . .  .  a . . , 

IS 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

ee  . . .  a  . . .  ee  .  . .  Aaa  .  .  .  ska  I  O  . .  .  oo  . .  • 
oo  . . .  bee  .  . .  ee  . .  .  ee  .  . .  ee  . .  .  la  ! '  While 
Martin  Pctrovitch  would  shake  his  head,  make 
allusions  to  the  mutability  of  life,  how  all  things 
turn  to  ashes,  fade  away  like  grass,  pass — and 
will  return  no  more!  A  picture  had  somehow 
come  into  his  hands,  representing  a  burning 
candle,  which  the  winds,  with  puffed-out 
cheeks,  were  blowing  upon  from  all  sides ; 
below  was  the  inscription  :  *  Such  is  the  life  of 
man.'  He  was  very  fond  of  this  picture ;  he 
had  hung  it  up  in  his  own  room,  but  at  ordin- 
ary, not  melancholy,  times  he  used  to  keep 
it  turned  face  to  the  wall,  so  that  it  might  not 
depress  him.  Harlov,  that  colossus,  was  afraid 
of  death  !  To  the  consolations  of  religion,  to 
prayer,  however,  he  rarely  had  recourse  in  his 
fits  of  melancholy.  Even  then  he  chiefly 
relied  on  his  own  intelligence.  He  had  no 
particular  religious  feeling ;  he  was  not  often 
seen  in  church ;  he  used  to  say,  it  is  true,  that 
he  did  not  go  on  the  ground  that,  owing  to  his 
corporeal  dimensions,  he  was  afraid  of  squeez- 
ing other  people  out.  The  fit  of  depression 
commonly  ended  in  Martin  Petrovitch's  begin- 
ning to  whistle,  and  suddenly,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder,  ordering  out  his  droshky,  and  dashing 
off  about  the  neighbourhood,  vigorously  bran- 
dishing his  disengaged  hand  over  the  peak  of 
his  cap,  as  though  he  would  say,  *  For  all  that,  I 
don't  care  a  straw  I '    He  was  a  regular  Russian. 

i6 


/' 


Strong  men,  like  Martin  Petrovitch,  are  for 
the  most  part  of  a  phlegmatic  disposition  ;  but 
he,  on  the  contrary,  was  rather  easily  irritated. 
He  was  specially  short-tempered  with  a  certain 
Bitchkov,  who  had  found  a  refuge  in  our  house, 
where  he  occupied  a  position  between  that  of  a 
buffoon  and  a  dependant.  He  was  the  brother 
of  Harlov's  deceased  wife,  had  been  nicknamed 
Souvenir  as  a  little  boy,  and  Souvenir  he  had 
remained  for  every  one,  even  the  servants,  who 
addressed  him,  it  is  true,  as  Souvenir  Timo- 
feitch.  His  real  name  he  seemed  hardly  to 
know  himself.  He  was  a  pitiful  creature, 
looked  down  upon  by  every  one  ;  a  toady,  in 
fact.  He  had  no  teeth  on  one  side  of  his 
mouth,  which  gave  his  little  wrinkled  face  a 
crooked  appearance.  He  was  in  a  perpetual 
fuss  and  fidget  ;  he  used  to  poke  himself  into 
the  maids'  room,  or  into  the  counting-house,  or 
into  the  priest's  quarters,  or  else  into  the  bailiff's 
hut.  He  was  repelled  from  everywhere,  but  he 
only  shrugged  himself  up,  and  screwed  up  his 
little  eyes,  and  laughed  a  pitiful  mawkish  laugh, 

17  B 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

like  the  sound  of  rinsing  a  bottle.  It  always 
seemed  to  me  that  had  Souvenir  had  money, 
he  would  have  turned  into  the  basest  person, 
unprincipled,  spiteful,  even  cruel.ry.  Poverty 
kept  him  within  bounds.  He  was  only  allowed 
drink  on  holidays.  He  was  decently  dressed, 
by  my  mother's  orders,  since  in  the  evenings 
he  took  a  hand  in  her  game  of  picquet  or  boston. 
Souvenir  was  constantly  repeating,  *  Certainly, 
d'rectly,  d'rectly.'  *  D'rectly  what  ? '  my  mother 
would  ask,  with  annoyance.  He  instantly  drew 
back  his  hands,  in  a  scare,  and  lisped,  *At 
your  service,  ma'am  ! '  Listening  at  doors, 
backbiting,  and,  above  all,  quizzing,  teasing, 
were  his  sole  interest,  and  he  used  to  quiz  as 
though  he  had  a  right  to,  as  though  he  were 
r  avenging  himself  for  something.  He  used  to 
call  Martin  Petrovitch  brother,  and  tormented 
him  beyond  endurance.  *  What  made  you  kill 
my  sister,  Margarita  Timofeevna  ?  *  he  used  to 
persist,  wriggling  about  before  him  and  snigger- 
ing. One  day  Martin  Petrovitch  was  sitting  in 
the  billiard-room,  a  cool  apartment,  in  which 
no  one  had  ever  seen  a  single  fly,  and  which  our 
neighbour,  disliking  heat  and  sunshine,  greatly 
favoured  on  this  account.  He  was  sitting 
between  the  wall  and  the  billiard-table.  Sou- 
venir was  fidgeting  before  his  bulky  person, 
mocking  him,  grimacing.  .  .  ,  Martin  Petro- 
vitch wanted  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  thrust  both 
hands  out  in  front  of  him.     Luckily  for  Sou- 

i8 


A  LEAR  or  THE  STEPPES 

venir  he  managed  to  get  away,  his  brother-in- 
law's  open  hands  came  into  collision  with  the 
edge  of  the  billiard-table,  and  the  billiard-board 
went  flying  off  all  its  six  screws.  .  .  X,  What 
a  mass  of  batter  Souvenir  would  have  been 
turned  into  under  those  mighty  hands  !  v/ 


/ 


19 


VI 


I  HAD  long  been  curious  to  see  how  Martin 
Petrovitch  arranged  his  household,  what  sort 
of  a  home  he  had.  One  day  I  invited  myself 
to  accompany  him  on  horseback  as  far  as 
Eskovo  (that  was  the  name  of  his  estate). 
*  Upon  my  word,  you  want  to  have  a  look  at 
my  dominion,'  was  Martin  Petrovitch's  com- 
ment. '  By  all  means  !  I  '11  show  you  the 
garden,  and  the  house,  and  the  threshing-floor, 
and  everything.  I  have  plenty  of  everything.' 
We  set  off.  It  was  reckoned  hardly  more 
than  a  couple  of  miles  from  our  place  to 
Eskovo.  *  Here  it  is — my  dominion  ! '  Martin 
Petrovitch  roared  suddenly,  trying  to  turn  his 
immovable  neck,  and  waving  his  arm  to  right 
and  left.  '  It 's  all  mine  ! '  Harlov's  home- 
stead lay  on  the  top  of  a  sloping  hill.  At  the 
bottom,  a  few  wretched-looking  peasants*  huts 
clustered  close  to  a  small  pond.  At  the  pond, 
on  a  washing  platform,  an  old  peasant  woman 
in  a  check  petticoat  was  beating  some  soaked 
linen  with  a  bat. 

*  Axinia ! '  boomed  Martin  Petrovitch,  but  in 

20 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

such  a  note  that  the  rooks  flew  up  In  a  flock 
from  an  oat-field  near.  ,  .  .  'Washing  your 
husband's  breeches  ? ' 

The  peasant  woman  turned  at  once  and 
bowed  very  low. 

*Yes,  sir/  sounded  her  weak  voice. 

'  Ay>  ay  !      Yonder,  look/  Martin  Petrovitch 
continued,  proceeding   at   a   trot   alongside   a 
half-rotting   wattle    fence,  'that   is    my  hemp- 
patch;   and  that  yonder 's  the  peasants';   see 
the  difference?     And  this  here  is  my  garden  ;  , 
the  apple-trees   I  planted,  and    the   willows   I  | 
planted  too.     Else  there  was  no  timber  of  any  | 
sort  here.     Look  at  that,  and  learn  a  lesson  !' 

We  turned  into  the  courtyard,  shut  in  by  a 
fence  ;  right  opposite  the  gate,  rose  an  old 
tumbledown  lodge,  with  a  thatch  roof,  and  steps 
up  to  it,  raised  on  posts.  On  one  side  stood 
another,  rather  newer,  and  with  a  tiny  attic  ; 
but  it  too  was  a  ramshackly  affair.  *  Here  you 
may  learn  a  lesson  again,'  observed  Harlov ; 
'see  what  a  little  manor-house  our  fathers  lived 
in  ;  but  now  see  what  a  mansion  I  have  built 
myself.'  This  'mansion'  was  like  a  house  of 
cards.  Five  or  six  dogs,  one  more  ragged  and 
hideous  than  another,  welcomed  us  with  bark- 
ing. '  Sheep-dogs  ! '  observed  Martin  Petro- 
vitch. '  Pure-bred  Crimeans  !  Sh,  damned 
brutes !  I  '11  come  and  strangle  you  one  after 
another ! '  On  the  steps  of  the  new  building, 
there  came  out  a  young  man,  in  a  long  full 

21 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

\  nankeen  overall,  the  husband  of  Martin  Petro- 
vitch's  elder  daughter.  Skipping  quickly  up 
'  to  the  droshky,  he  respectfully  supported  his 
I  father-in-law  under  the  elbow  as  he  got  up, 
and  even  made  as  though  he  would  hold  the 
gigantic  feet,  which  the  latter,  bending  his 
bulky  person  forward,  lifted  with  a  sweeping 
movement  across  the  seat ;  then  he  assisted 
me  to  dismount  from  my  horse. 

*  Anna  ! '  cried  Harlov,  *  Natalia  Nikolaevna's 
son  has  come  to  pay  us  a  visit ;  you  must  find 
some  good  cheer  for  him.  But  where 's  Ev- 
lampia  ? '  (Anna  was  the  name  of  the  elder 
daughter,  Evlampia  of  the  younger.) 

'  She  's  not  at  home ;  she 's  gone  into  the 
fields  to  get  cornflowers,'  responded  Anna, 
appearing  at  a  little  window  near  the  door. 

*  Is  there  any  junket  ?  *  queried  Harlov. 

*  Yes.' 

*  And  cream  too  ? ' 
« Yes.' 

*  Well,  set  them  on  the  table,  and  I  '11  show 
the  young  gentleman  my  own  room  meanwhile. 
This  way,  please,  this  way,'  he  added,  address- 
ing me,  and  beckoning  with  his  forefinger.  In 
his  own  house  he  treated  me  less  familiarly  ; 
as  a  host  he  felt  obliged  to  be  more  formally 
respectful.  He  led  me  along  a  corridor.  *  Here 
is  where  I  abide,'  he  observed,  stepping  side- 
ways over  the  threshold  of  a  wide  doorway, 
*  this  is  my  room.     Pray  walk  in  !  * 

2a 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

His  room  turned  out  to  be  a  big  unplastered 
apartment,  almost  empty ;  on  the  walls,  on 
nails  driven  in  askew,  hung  two  riding-whips, 
a  three-cornered  hat,  reddish  with  wear,  a 
single-barrelled  gun,  a  sabre,  a  sort  of  curious 
horse-collar  inlaid  with  metal  plates,  and  the 
picture  representing  a  burning  candle  blown  on 
by  the  winds.  In  one  corner  stood  a  wooden 
settle  covered  with  a  parti-coloured  rug.  Hun- 
dreds of  flies  swarmed  thickly  about  the  ceiling ; 
yet  the  room  was  cool.  But  there  was  a  very 
strong  smell  of  that  peculiar  odour  of  the 
forest  which  always  accompanied  Martin  Petro- 
vitch. 

*  Well,  is  it  a  nice  room  ? '  Harlov  questioned 
me. 

*  Very  nice.* 

*Look-ye,  there  hangs  my  Dutch  horse- 
collar,'  Harlov  went  on,  dropping  into  his 
familiar  tone  again.  '  A  splendid  horse-collar ! 
got  it  by  barter  off  a  Jew.   Just  you  look  at  it ! ' 

'It's  a  good  horse-collar.' 

*  It's  most  practical.  And  just  sniff  it  .  .  . 
what  leather ! '  I  smelt  the  horse-collar.  It 
smelt  of  rancid  oil  and  nothing  else. 

*  Now,  be  seated, — there  on  the  stool ;  make 
yourself  at  home,'  observed  Harlov,  while  he 
himself  sank  on  to  the  settle,  and  seemed  to 
fall  into  a  doze,  shutting  his  eyes  and  even 
beginning  to  snore.  I  gazed  at  him  without 
speaking,  with  ever  fresh  wonder ;  he  was  a 

23 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

perfect  mountain — there  was  no  other  word! 

Suddenly  he  started. 

*  Anna  ! '  he  shouted,  while  his  huge  stomach 
rose  and  fell  like  a  wave  on  the  sea ;  *  what  are 
you  about  ?  Look  sharp !  Didn't  you  hear 
me?' 

'Everything's  ready,  father;  come  in/  I 
heard  his  daughter's  voice. 

I  inwardly  marvelled  at  the  rapidity  with 
which  Martin  Petrovitch's  behests  had  been 
carried  out ;  and  followed  him  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where,  on  a  table  covered  with  a  red 
cloth  with  white  flowers  on  it,  lunch  was  already 
prepared  :  junket,  cream,  wheaten  bread,  even 
powdered  sugar  and  ginger.  While  I  set  to 
work  on  the  junket,  Martin  Petrovitch  growled 
affectionately,  *  Eat,  my  friend,  eat,  my  dear 
boy ;  don't  despise  our  country  cheer,'  and 
sitting  down  again  in  a  corner,  again  seemed 
to  fall  into  a  doze.  Before  me,  perfectly 
motionless,  with  downcast  eyes,  stood  Anna 
Martinovna,  while  I  saw  through  the  window 
her  husband  walking  my  cob  up  and  down  the 
yard,  and  rubbing  the  chain  of  the  snaffle  with 
his  own  hands. 


34 


VII 

My    mother    did    not     like     Harlov's    elder     \ 
daughter;    she   called    her   a   stuck-up   thing.      \ 
Anna  Martinovna  scarcely  ever  came  to  pay      I 
us  her  respects,  and  behaved  with  chilly  de-      J 
corum  in  my  mother's  presence,  though  it  was 
by  her  good  offices  she  had  been  well  educated 
at  a  boarding-school,  and  had  been  married, 
and  on  her  wedding-day  had  received  a  thousand 
roubles  and  a  yellow  Turkish  shawl,  the  latter, 
it  is  true,  a  trifle  the  worse  for  wear.     She  was 
a  woman  of  medium  height,  thin,  very  brisk 
and  rapid  in  her  movements,  with  thick  fair 
hair  and  a  handsome  dark  face,  on  which  the 
pale-blue  narrow  eyes  showed  up  in  a  rather 
strange  but  pleasing  way.     She  had  a  straight  ^^J 

thin  nose,  her  lips  were  thin  too,  and  her  chin  /i 

was  like  the  loop-end  of  a  hair-pin.  No  one  J  v. 
looking  at  her  could  fail  to  think:  'Well,  you/  ]\^'  / 
are  a  clever  creature — and  a  spiteful  one,  too  !  * 
And  for  all  that,  there  was  something  attractive 
about  her  too.  Even  the  dark  moles,  scat- 
tered *like  buck-wheat'  over  her  face,  suited 
her  and   increased  the  feeling    she    inspired. 

25 


C 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Her  hands  thrust  into  her  kerchief,  she  was 
slily  watching  me,  looking  downwards  (I  was 
seated,  while  she  was  standing).  A  wicked 
little  smile  strayed  about  her  lips  and  her 
cheeks  and  in  the  shadow  of  her  long  eyelashes. 
*Ugh,  you  pampered  little  fine  gentleman!* 
this  smile  seemed  to  express.  Every  time  she 
drew  a  breath,  her  nostrils  slightly  distended — 
this,  too,  was  rather  strange.  But  all  the  same, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  were  Anna  Martinovna 
to  love  me,  or  even  to  care  to  kiss  me  with  her 
thin  cruel  lips,  I  should  simply  bound  up  to 
the  ceiling  with  delight.  I  knew  she  was  very 
severe  and  exacting,  that  the  peasant  women 
and  girls  went  in  terror  of  her — but  what  of 
that?  Anna  Martinovna  secretly  excited  my 
imagination  .  .  .  though  after  all,  I  was  only 
fifteen  then, — and  at  that  age !  .  .  . 

Martin  Petrovitch  roused  himself  again. 
*Anna!'  he  shouted,  'you  ought  to  strum 
something  on  the  pianoforte  , . .  young  gentle- 
men are  fond  of  that.* 

I  looked  round  ;  there  was  a  pitiful  semblance 
of  a  piano  in  the  room. 

'Yes,  father,'  responded  Anna  Martinovna. 
*Only  what  am  I  to  play  the  young  gentle- 
man ?     He  won't  find  it  interesting.' 

*  Why,  what  did  they  teach  you  at  your 
young  ladies'  seminary?' 

*  I  've  forgotten  everything  —  besides,  the 
notes  are  broken.' 

26 


■f.','; 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Anna  Martinovna*s  voice  was  very  pleasant, 
resonant  and  rather  plaintive — like  the  note 
of  some  birds  of  prey. 

*  Very  well,'  said  Martin  Petrovitch,  and  he 
lapsed  into  dreaminess  again.  '  Well,'  he  began 
once  more,  'wouldn't  you  like,  then,  to  see 
the  threshing-floor,  and  have  a  look  round  ? 
Volodka  will  escort  you. — Hi,  Volodka ! '  he 
shouted  to  his  son-in-law,  who  was  still  pacing 
up  and  down  the  yard  with  my  horse,  'take 
the  young  gentleman  to  the  threshing-floor  .  .  . 
and  show  him  my  farming  generally.  But  I 
must  have  a  nap  !     So  !  good-bye  !  * 

He  went  out  and  I  after  him.  Anna 
Martinovna  at  once  set  to  work  rapidly,  and, 
as  it  were,  angrily,  clearing  the  table.  In  the 
doorway,  I  turned  and  bowed  to  her.  But  she 
seemed  not  to  notice  my  bow,  and  only  smiled 
again,  more  maliciously  than  before. 

I  took  my  horse  from  Harlov's  son-in-law 
and  led  him  by  the  bridle.  We  went  together 
to  the  threshing-floor,  but  as  we  discovered 
nothing  very  remarkable  about  it,  and  as  he 
could  not  suppose  any  great  interest  in  farming 
in  a  young  lad  like  me,  we  returned  through 
the  garden  to  the  main  road. 


27 


VIII 

I  WAS  well  acquainted  with  Harlov's  son-in-law. 
His  name  was  Vladimir  Vassilievitch  Sletkin. 
He  was  an  orphan,  brought  up  by  my  mother, 
and  the  son  of  a  petty  official,  to  whom  she 
had  intrusted  some  business.  He  had  first 
been  placed  in  the  district  school,  then  he  had 
entered  the  *  seignorial  counting-house,'  then  he 
had  been  put  into  the  service  of  the  govern- 
ment stores,  and,  finally,  married  to  the  daughter 
of  Martin  Petrovitch.  C-My  mother  used  to  call 
him  a  little  Jew,  and  ^certainly,  with  his  curly 
hair,  his  black  eyes  always  moist,  like  damson 
jam,  his  hook  nose,  and  wide  red  mouth,  he 
did  suggest  the  Jewish  type.  But  the  colour 
of  his  skin  was  white  and  he  was  altogether 
very  good-looking.  'He  was  of  a  most  obliging 
temper,  so  long  as  his  personal  advantage  was 
not  involved.  Then  he  promptly  lost  all  self- 
control  from  greediness,  and  was  moved  even 
\  to  tears.  He  was  ready  to  whine  the  whole 
i  day  long  to  gain  the  paltriest  trifle  ;  he  would 
remind  one  a  hundred  times  over  of  a  promise, 
and  be  hurt  and  complain  if  it  were  not  carried 

28 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

out  at  once.  He  liked  sauntering  about  the 
fields  with  a  gun ;  and  when  he  happened  to 
get  a  hare  or  a  wild  duck,  he  would  thrust  his 
booty  into  his  game-bag  with  peculiar  zest, 
saying,  *  Now,  you  may  be  as  tricky  as  you 
like,  you  won't  escape  me !    Now  you  're  mineV^ 

*  You've  a  good  horse,'  he  began  in  his 
lisping  voice,  as  he  assisted  me  to  get  into  the 
saddle ;  *  I  ought  to  have  a  horse  like  that ! 
But  where  can  I  get  one  ?  I  've  no  such  luck. 
If  you'd  ask  your  mamma,  now  —  remind 
her.' 

'Why,  has  she  promised  you  one?' 

*  Promised  ?  No ;  but  I  thought  that  in  her 
great  kindness ' 

*  You  should  apply  to  Martin  Petrovitch.' 

*  To  Martin  Petrovitch  ? '  Sletkin  repeated, 
dwelling  on  each  syllable.  *  To  him  I  'm  no 
better  than  a  worthless  page,  like  Maximka. 
He  keeps  a  tight  hand  on  us,  that  he  does,  and 
you  get  nothing  from  him  for  all  your  toil.' 

*  Really  ? ' 
*Yes,   by   God.      He'll   say,    "My   word's 

sacred ! " — and  there,  it's  as  though  he 's  chopped 
it  off  with  an  axe.  You  may  beg  or  not,  it's 
all  one.  Besides,  Anna  Martinovna,  my  wife, 
is  not  in  such  favour  with  him  as  Evlampia  , 
Martinovna,  O  merciful  God,  bless  us  and 
save  us!'  he  suddenly  interrupted  himself, 
flinging   up   his    hands    in    despair.      *  Look ! 

what 's  that  ?     A  whole  half-rood  of  oats,  our 

29 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

oats,  some  wretch  has  gone  and  cut.  The 
villain  I  Just  see!  Thieves!  thieves!  It's  a 
true  saying,  to  be  sure,  don't  trust  Eskovo, 
Beskovo,  Erino,  and  Byelino  1  (these  were  the 
names  of  four  villages  near).  Ah,  ah,  what  a 
thing  1  A  rouble  and  a  half's  worth,  or,  maybe, 
two  roubles,  loss  !  * 

In  Sletkin's  voice,  one  could  almost  hear 
sobs.  I  gave  my  horse  a  poke  in  the  ribs  and 
rode  away  from  him. 

Sletkin's  ejaculations  still  reached  my  hear- 
ing, when  suddenly  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  I 
came  upon  the  second  daughter  of  Harlov, 
Evlampia,  who  had,  in  the  words  of  Anna 
Martinovna,  gone  into  the  fields  to  get  corn- 
flowers. A  thick  wreath  of  those  flowers  was 
twined  about  her  head.  We  exchanged  bows 
in  silence.  Evlampia,  too,  was  very  good- 
looking  ;  as  much  so  as  her  sister,  though  in  a 
different  style.  She  was  tall  and  stoutly  built ; 
everything  about  her  was  on  a  large  scale :  her 
head,  and  her  feet  and  hands,  and  her  snow- 
white  teeth,  and  especially  her  eyes,  prominent, 
languishing  eyes,  of  the  dark  blue  of  glass 
beads.  Everything  about  her,  while  still  beau- 
tiful, had  positively  a  monumental  character 
(she  was  a  true  daughter  of  Martin  Petro- 
vitch).  She  did  not,  it  seemed,  know  what 
to  do  with  her  massive  fair  mane,  and  she  had 
twisted  it  in  three  plaits  round  her  head.  Her 
mouth  was  charming,  crimson  and  fresh  as  a 

30 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

rose,  and  as  she  talked  her  upper  h'p  was  lifted 
in  the  middle  in  a  very  fascinating  way.  But 
there  was  something  wild  and  almost  fierce  in 
the  glance  of  her  huge  eyes.  'A  free  bird, 
wild  Cossack  breed,'  so  Martin  Petrovitch  used 
to  speak  of  her.  1  was  in  awe  of  her  .  .  .  This 
stately  beauty  reminded  one  of  her  father. 

I  rode  on  a  little  farther,  and  heard  her 
singing  in  a  strong,  even,  rather  harsh  voice,  a 
regular  peasant  voice ;  suddenly  she  ceased. 
I  looked  round  and  from  the  crest  of  the  hill 
saw  her  standing  beside  Harlov's  son-in-law, 
facing  the  rood  of  oats.  The  latter  was  gesti- 
culating and  pointing,  but  she  stood  without 
stirring.  The  sun  lighted  up  her  tall  figure, 
and  the  wreath  of  cornflowers  shone  brilliantly 
blue  on  her  head. 


SI 


J 


IX 


I  BELIEVE  I  have  already  mentioned  that,  for 
this  second  daughter  of  Harlov's  too,  my 
mother  had  already  prepared  a  match.  This 
was  one  of  the  poorest  of  our  neighbours,  a 
retired  army  major,  Gavrila  Fedulitch  Zhitkov, 
a  man  no  longer  young,  and,  as  he  himself 
expressed  it,  not  without  a  certain  complacency, 
however,  as  though  recommending  himself, 
'battered  and  broken  down/  He  could  barely 
read  and  write,  and  was  exceedingly  stupid, 
but  secretly  aspired  to  become  my  mother's 
steward,  as  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  'man  of 
action/  *  I  can  warm  the  peasant's  hides  for 
them,  if  I  can  do  anything/  he  used  to  say, 
almost  gnashing  his  own  teeth,  *  because  I  was 
used  to  it,'  he  used  to  explain,  *  in  my  former 
duties,  I  mean/  Had  Zhitkov  been  less  of  a 
fool,  he  would  have  realised  that  he  had  not 
the  slightest  chance  of  being  steward  to  my 
mother,  seeing  that,  for  that,  it  would  have  been 
necessary  to  get  rid  of  the  present  steward, 
one  Kvitsinsky,  a  very  capable  Pole  of  great 
character,  in  whom  my  mother  had  the  fullest 

3* 


1  A  LEAR  OF   THE  STEPPES 

confidence.  Zhitkov  had  a  long  face,  like  a 
horse's  ;  it  was  all  overgrown  with  hair  of  a 
dusty  whitish  colour ;  his  cheeks  were  covered 
with  it  right  up  to  the  eyes  ;  and  even  in  the 
severest  frosts,  it  was  sprinkled  with  an  abun- 
dant sweat,  like  drops  of  dew.  At  the  sight  of 
my  mother,  he  drew  himself  upright  as  a  post, 
his  head  positively  quivered  with  zeal,  his  huge 
hands  slapped  a  little  against  his  thighs,  and 
his  whole  person  seemed  to  express  :  '  Com- 
mand !  .  .  .  and  I  will  strive  my  utmost ! '  My 
mother  was  under  no  illusion  on  the  score  of 
his  abilities,  which  did  not,  however,  hinder  her 
from  taking  steps  to  marry  him  to  Evlampia. 

*  Only,  will  you  be  able  to  manage  her,  my 
good  sir? '  she  asked  him  one  day. 

Zhitkov  smiled  complacently. 

*  Upon  my  word,  Natalia  Nikolaevna !  I 
used  to  keep  a  whole  regiment  in  order ;  they 
were  tame  enough  in  my  hands ;  and  what 's 
this  ?     A  trumpery  business  ! ' 

*  A  regiment 's  one  thing,  sir,  but  a  well-bred 
girl,  a   wife,   is    a   very   different   matter,'  my     / 
mother  observed  with  displeasure.  ' 

'Upon  my  word,  ma'am!  Natalia  Niko- 
laevna ! '  Zhitkov  cried  again,  *  that  we  're 
quite  able  to  understand.  In  one  word :  a 
young  lady,  a  delicate  person  ! ' 

'  Well ! '  my  mother  decided  at  length, 
*  Evlampia  won't  let  herself  be  trampled  upon/  - 


33 


X 

One  day — it  was  the  month  of  June,  and 
evening  was  coming  on — a  servant  announced 
the  arrival  of  Martin  Petrovitch.  My  mother 
was  surprised  :  we  had  not  seen  him  for  over 
a  week,  but  he  had  never  visited  us  so  late 
before.  '  Something  has  happened  ! '  she  ex- 
claimed in  an  undertone.  The  face  of  Martin 
Petrovitch,  when  he  rolled  into  the  room  and 
at  once  sank  into  a  chair  near  the  door,  wore 
such  an  unusual  expression,  it  was  so  pre- 
occupied and  positively  pale,  that  my  mother 
involuntarily  repeated  her  exclamation  aloud. 
Martin  Petrovitch  fixed  his  little  eyes  upon 
her,  was  silent  for  a  space,  sighed  heavily,  was 
\silent  again,  and  articulated  at  last  that  he  had 
pome  about  something  .  .  .  which  .  .  .  was  of  a 
kind,  that  on  account  of  .  .  . 

Muttering  these  disconnected  words,  he 
suddenly  got  up  and  went  out.  ^"* 

My  mother  rang,  ordered  the  footman,  who 
appeared,  to  overtake  Martin  Petrovitch  at 
once  and  bring  him  back  without  fail,  but  the 
latter  had  already  had  time  to  get  into  his 
droshky  and  drive  away. 

34 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Next  morning  my  mother,  who  was  aston- 
ished and  even  alarmed,  as  much  by  Martin 
Petrovitch's  strange  behaviour  as  by  the  extra- 
ordinary expression  of  his  face,  was  on  the 
point  of  sending  a  special  messenger  to  him, 
when  he  made  his  appearance.  This  time  he 
seemed  more  composed. 

*  Tell  me,  my  good  friend,  tell  me,*  cried  my 
mother,  directly  she  saw  him,  *what  ever  has 
happened  to  you  ?  I  thought  yesterday,  upon 
my  word  I  did.  ..."  Mercy  on  us  I  "  I  thought, 
"  Hasn't  our  old  friend  gone  right  off  his 
head  ?  " ' 

'  I've  not  gone  off  my  head,  madam,' answered 
Martin  Petrovitch  ;  '  I  'm  not  that  sort  of  man. 
But  I  want  to  consult  with  you.' 

'  What  about  ? ' 

'  I  'm  only  in  doubt,  whether  it  will  be  agree- 
able to  you  in  this  same  contingency ' 

*  Speak  away,  speak  away,  my  good  sir,  but 
more  simply.  Don't  alarm  me  !  What 's  this 
same  contingency  ?  Speak  more  plainly.  Or 
is  it  your  melancholy  come  upon  you  again  ?* 

Harlov  scowled.  *  No,  it's  not  melancholy — 
that  comes  upon  me  in  the  new  moon  ;  but 
allow  me  to  ask  you,  madam,  what  do  you  think 
about  death  ? ' 

My  mother  was  taken  aback.     '  About  what  ?' 

*  About  death.  Can  death  spare  any  one 
whatever  in  this  world  ? ' 

*  What  have  you  got  in  your  head,  my  good 

35 


c 


A   LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

friend  ?  Who  of  us  is  immortal  ?  For  all 
you  're  born  a  giant,  even  to  you  there  '11  be  an 
end  in  time.' 

*  There  will !  oh,  there  will ! '  Harlov  as- 
sented and  he  looked  downcast.  '  I  've  had  a 
vision  come  to  me  in  my  dreams,'  he  brought 
out  at  last. 

*  What  are  you  saying  ? '  my  mother  inter- 
rupted him. 

*A  vision  in  my  dreams,'  he  repeated — *I'm 
a  seer  of  visions,  you  know  ! ' 

*You!' 

*I.  Didn't  you  know  it?'  Harlov  sighed. 
*  Well,  so.  .  .  .  Over  a  week  ago,  madam,  I  lay 
down,  on  the  very  last  day  of  eating  meat 
before  St.  Peter's  fast-day ;  I  lay  down  after 
dinner  to  rest  a  bit,  well,  and  so  I  fell  asleep, 
and  dreamed  a  raven  colt  ran  into  the  room  to 
me.  And  this  colt  began  sporting  about  and 
grinning.  Black  as  a  beetle  was  the  raven  colt' 
Harlov  ceased. 

*  Well  ? '  said  my  mother. 

*And  all  of  a  sudden  this  same  colt  turns 
round,  and  gives  me  a  kick  in  the  left  elbow, 
right  in  the  funny  bone.  ...  I  waked  up  ;  my 
arm  would  not  move  nor  my  leg  either.  Well, 
thinks  I,  it 's  paralysis  ;  however,  I  worked  them 
up  and  down,  and  got  them  to  move  again ; 
only  there  were  shooting  pains  in  the  joints  a 
long  time,  and  there  are  still.  When  I  open 
my  hand,  the  pains  shoot  through  the  joints.' 

36 


; 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

*  Why,  Martin  Petrovitch,  you  must  have  lain 
upon  your  arm  somehow  and  crushed  it.' 

'  No,  madam  ;  pray,  don't  talk  like  that !  It 
was  an  intimation  .  .  .  referring  to  my  death, 
I  mean.' 

*  Well,  upon  my  word,'  my  mother  was  begin- 
ning. 

'An  intimation.  Prepare  thyself,  man,  as 
'twere  to  say.  And  therefore,  madam,  here  is 
what  I  have  to  announce  to  you,  without  a 
moment's  delay.  Not  wishing,'  Harlov  sud- 
denly began  shouting,  'that  the  same  death 
should  come  upon  me,  the  servant  of  God,  una- 
wares, I  have  planned  in  my  own  mind  this : 
to  divide — now  during  my  lifetime — my  estate 
between  my  two  daughters,  Anna  and  Evlam- 
pia,  according  as  God  Almighty  directs  me — ' 
Martin  Petrovitch  stopped,  groaned,  and  added, 
'  without  a  moment's  delay.' 

'  Well,  that  would  be  a  good  idea,'  observed 
my  mother ;  '  though  I  think  you  have  no  need 
to  be  in  a  hurry.' 

'And  seeing  that  herein  I  desire,'  Harlov 
continued,  raising  his  voice  still  higher,  'to  be 
observant  of  all  due  order  and  legality,  so  I 
humbly  beg  your  young  son,  Dmitri  Semyono- 
vitch — I  would  not  venture,  madam,  to  trouble 
you — I  beg  the  said  Dmitri  Semyonovitch,  your 
son,  and  I  claim  of  my  kinsman,  Bitchkov,  as  a 
plain  duty,  to  assist  at  the  ratification  of  the 
formal  act  and  transference  of  possession  to  my  • 

37 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

two  daughters — Anna,  married,  and  Evlampia, 
spinster.  Which  act  will  be  drawn  up  in  readi- 
ness the  day  after  to-morrow  at  twelve  o'clock, 
at  my  own  place,  Eskovo,  also  called  Kozul- 
kino,  in  the  presence  of  the  ruling  authorities 
and  functionaries,  who  are  thereto  invited.' 

Martin  Petrovitch  with  difficulty  reached  the 
end  of  this  speech,  which  he  had  obviously 
learnt  by  heart,  and  which  was  interspersed 
with  frequent  sighs.  .  .  .  He  seemed  to  have 
no  breath  left  in  his  chest ;  his  pale  face  was 
crimson  again,  and  he  several  times  wiped  the 
sweat  off  it. 

'  So  you  've  already  composed  the  deed 
dividing  your  property  ? '  my  mother  queried. 
'  When  did  you  manage  that  ? ' 

*  1  managed  it  ...  oh  !  Neither  eating,  nor 
drinking ' 

*Did  you  write  it  yourself?' 

*  Volodka  ...  oh  !  helped.' 

*  And  have  you  forwarded  a  petition  ? ' 

*  I  have,  and  the  chamber  has  sanctioned  it, 
and  notice  has  been  given  to  the  district  court, 
and  the  temporary  division  of  the  local  court 
has  .  .  .  oh !  .  .  .  been  notified  to  be  present.' 

My  mother  laughed.  *  I  see,  Martin  Petro- 
vitch, you  Ve  made  every  arrangement  already 
— and  how  quickly.  You  Ve  not  spared  money, 
I  should  say  ? ' 

'No,  indeed,  madam.' 

*  Well,  well.     And  you  say  you  want  to  con- 

38 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

suit  with  me.  Well,  my  little  Dmitri  can  go  ; 
and  I  '11  send  Souvenir  with  him,  and  speak  to 
Kvitsinsky.  .  .  .  But  you  haven't  invited 
Gavrila  Fedulitch  ? ' 

'Gavrila  Fedulitch — Mr.  Zhitkov — has  had 
notice  .  .  .  from  me  also.  As  a  betrothed, 
it  was  only  fitting.' 

Martin  Pctrovitch  had  obviously  exhausted 
all  the  resources  of  his  eloquence.  Besides,  it 
always  seemed  to  me  that  he  did  not  look 
altogether  favourably  on  the  match  my  mother 
had  made  for  his  daughter ;  possibly,  he  had 
expected  a  more  advantageous  marriage  for 
his  darling  Evlampia. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  made  a  scrape 
with  his  foot.     *  Thank  you  for  your  consent.' 

*  Where  are  you  off  to  ?  '  asked  my  mother. 

*  Stay  a  bit ;  I  '11  order  some  lunch  to  be  served 
you.' 

*  Much  obliged,'  responded  Harlov.  *  But  I 
cannot.  .  .  .     Oh !  I  must  get  home.* 

He  backed  and  was  about  to  move  sideways, 
as  his  habit  was,  through  the  door. 

'  Stop,  stop  a  minute,'  my  mother  went  on. 

*  can  you  possibly  mean  to  make  over  the  whole 
of  your  property  without  reserve  to  your 
daughters  ? ' 

*  Certainly,  without  reserve.' 

'Well,  but  how  about  yourself — where  are 
you  going  to  live  ? ' 

Harlov   positively   flung    up    his    hands   in 

39       ' 


A  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

amazement.  *  You  ask  where  ?  In  my  house, 
at  home,  as  I  've  lived  hitherto  ...  so  hence- 
forward. Whatever  difference  could  there 
be?' 

'  You  have  such  confidence  in  your  daughters 
and  your  son-in-law,  then  ? ' 

'Were you  pleased  to  speak  ofVolodka?  A 
poor  stick  like  him  ?  Why,  I  can  do  as  I  like 
with  him,  whatever  it  is  .  .  .  what  authority 

'  has  he  ?  As  for  them,  my  daughters,  that  is, 
to  care  for  me  till  I  'm  in  the  grave,  to  give  me 
meat  and  drink,  and  clothe  me.  .  .  .  Merciful 
heavens  !  it 's  their  first  duty.  I  shall  not  long 
be  an  eyesore  to  them.  Death 's  not  over  the 
hills — it's  upon  my  shoulders.' 

'  Death  is  in  God's  hands,'  observed  my 
mother;  'though  that  is  their  duty,  to  be  sure. 

\  Only  pardon  me,  Martin  Petrovitch  ;  your  elder 
girl,  Anna,  is  well  known  to  be  proud  and 
imperious,  and — well — the  second  has  a  fierce 
look.  .  .  .' 

'  Natalia  Nikolaevna  ! '  Harlov  broke  in, 
'  why  do  you  say  that  ?  .  .  .  Why,  as  though 
they  .  .  .  My  daughters  .  .  .  Why,  as  though 
I  .  .  .  Forget  their  duty  ?  Never  in  their 
wildest  dreams  .  .  .  Offer  opposition?  To 
whom  ?  Their  parent  .  .  .  Dare  to  do  such  a 
thing?  Have  they  not  my  curse  to  fear? 
They  've  passed  their  life  long  in  fear  and  in 
submission — and   all   of  a  sudden  .  .  .  Good 

Lord  ! ' 

40 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Harlov  choked,  there  was  a  rattle  in  his 
throat. 

'  Very  well,  very  well,'  my  mother  made  haste 
to  soothe  him  ;  '  only  I  don't  understand  all  the 
same  what  has  put  it  into  your  head  to  divide 
the  property  up  now.  It  would  have  come  to 
them  afterwards,  in  any  case.  I  imagine  it's 
your  melancholy  that 's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.' 

'Eh,  ma'am/  Harlov  rejoined,  not  without 
vexation,  '  you  will  keep  coming  back  to  that. 
There  is,  maybe,  a  higher  power  at  work  in  this, 
and  you  talk  of  melancholy.  I  thought  to  do 
this,  madam,  because  in  my  own  person,  while 
still  in  life,  I  wish  to  decide  in  my  presence, 
who  is  to  possess  what,  and  with  what  I  will 
reward  each,  so  that  they  may  possess,  and  feel 
thankfulness,  and  carry  out  my  wishes,  and 
what  their  father  and  benefactor  has  resolved 
upon,  they  may  accept  as  a  bountiful  gift' 

Harlov's  voice  broke  again. 

*  Come,  that 's  enough,  that 's  enough,  my 
good  friend,'  my  mother  cut  him  short ;  '  or 
your  raven  colt  will  be  putting  in  an  appearance 
in  earnest.' 

'  O  Natalia  Nikolaevna,  don't  talk  to  me  of 
it,'  groaned  Harlov.  'That's  my  death  come 
after  me.  Forgive  my  intrusion.  And  you, 
my  little  sir,  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  expect- 
ing you  the  day  after  to-morrow.' 

Martin  Petrovitch  went  out  ;  my  mother 
looked  after  him,  and  shook  her  head  signifi- 

41 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

cantly.     *u  his  is  a  bad  business/  she  murmured, 

*  a  bad  business.     You  noticed ' — she  addressed 

herself  to  me — *he  talked,  and  all  the  while 

seemed  blinking,  as  though  the  sun  were  in  his 

/  eyes  ;  that 's  a  bad  sign.     When  a  man 's  like 

7  that,  his  heart 's  sure  to  be  heavy,  and  misfor- 

/   tune  threatens  him.     You  must  go  over  the 

/     day  after  to-morrow  with  Vikenty  Osipovitch 


and  Souvenir.* 


^ 


42 


XI 


On  the  day  appointed,  our  big  family  coach, 
with  seats  for  four,  harnessed  ^vith  six  bay 
horses,  and  with  the  head  coachnidn,  the  grey- 
bearded  and  portly  Alexeitch,  on  the  box,  rolled 
smoothly  up  to  the  steps  of  our  house.  The 
importance  of  the  act  upon  which  Harlov  was 
about  to  enter,  and  the  solemnity  with  which 
he  had  invited  us,  had  had  their  effect  on  my 
mother.  She  had  herself  given  orders  for  this 
extraordinary  state  equipage  to  be  brought 
out,  and  had  directed  Souvenir  and  me  to  put 
on  our  best  clothes.  She  obviously  wished  to 
show  respect  to  her  prot^g^.  As  for  Kvitsinsky, 
he  always  wore  a  frockcoat  and  white  tie. 
Souvenir  chattered  like  a  magpie  all  the  way, 
giggled,  wondered  whether  his  brother  would 
apportion  him  anything,  and  thereupon  called 
him  a  dummy  and  an  old  fogey.  Kvitsinsky, 
a  man  of  severe  and  bilious  temperament, 
could  not  put  up  with  it  at  last.  'What  can 
induce  you,'  he  observed,  in  his  distinct  Polish 
accent,  *  to  keep  up  such  a  continual  unseemly 
chatter  ?    Can  you  really  be  incapable  of  sitting 

43 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

quiet  without  these  "wholly  superfluous  "  (his 
favourite  phrase)  inanities?*  'All  right, 
d'rectly/  Souvenir  muttered  discontentedly, 
and  he  fixed  his  squinting  eyes  on  the  carriage 
window.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  had  not  passed, 
the  smoothly  trotting  horses  had  scarcely  begun 
to  get  warm  under  the  straps  of  their  new  har- 
ness, when  Harlov's  homestead  came  into  sight. 
Through  the  widely  open  gate,  our  coach  rolled 
into  the  yard.  The  diminutive  postillion,  whose 
legs  hardly  reached  halfway  down  his  horses' 
body,  for  the  last  time  leaped  up  with  a  babyish 
shriek  into  the  soft  saddle,  old  Alexeitch  at 
once  spread  out  and  raised  his  elbows,  a  slight 
*  wo-o '  was  heard,  and  we  stopped.  The 
dogs  did  not  bark  to  greet  us,  and  the  serf 
boys,  in  long  smocks  that  gaped  open  over 
their  big  stomachs,  had  all  hidden  themselves. 
Harlov's   son-in-law   was   awaiting  us   in   the 

I  doorway.  I  remember  I  was  particularly  struck 
by  the  birch  boughs  stuck  in  on  both  sides  of 

1  the  steps,  as  though  it  were  Trinity  Sunday. 
'  Grandeur  upon  grandeur,'  Souvenir,  who  was 
the  first  to  alight,  squeaked  through  his  nose. 
And  certainly  there  was  a  solemn  air  about 
everything.  Harlov's  son-in-law  was  wearing 
a  plush  cravat  with  a  satin  bow,  and  an  extra- 
ordinarily tight  tail-coat ;  while  Maximka,  who 
popped  out  behind  his  back,  had  his  hair  so 
saturated  with  kvas,  that  it  positively  dripped. 
We  went  into   the   parlour,  and   saw   Martin 

44 


A   LEAR  OF   THE   STEPPES 

Petrovitch  towering — yes,  positively  towering 
— motionless,  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  I 
don't  know  what  Souvenir's  and  Kvitsinsky's 
feelings  were  at  the  sight  of  his  colossal  figure  ; 
but  I  felt  something  akin  to  awe.  Martin 
Petrovitch  was  attired  in  a  grey  Cossack  coat 
— his  militia  uniform  of  1812  it  must  have 
been — with  a  black  stand-up  collar.  A  bronze 
medal  was  to  be  seen  on  his  breast,  a  sabre 
hung  at  his  side ;  he  laid  his  left  hand  on  the 
hilt,  with  his  right  he  was  leaning  on  the  table, 
which  was  covered  with  a  red  cloth.  Two 
sheets  of  paper,  full  of  writing,  lay  on  the  table. 
Harlov  stood  motionless,  not  even  gasping  ; 
and  v/hat  dignity  was  expressed  in  his  attitude, 
what  confidence  in  himself,  in  his  unlimited 
and  unquestionable  power  !  He  barely  greeted 
us  with  a  motion  of  the  head,  and  barely  articu- 
lating '  Be  seated  ! '  pointed  the  forefinger  of 
his  left  hand  in  the  direction  of  some  chairs 
set  in  a  row.  Against  the  right-hand  wall  of 
the  parlour  were  standing  Harlov's  daughters 
wearing  their  Sunday  clothes  :  Anna,  in  a  shot 
lilac-green  dress,  with  a  yellow  silk  sash  ; 
Evlampia,  in  pink,  with  crimson  ribbons.  Near 
them  stood  Zhitkov,  in  a  new  uniform,  with 
the  habitual  expression  of  dull  and  greedy 
expectation  in  his  eyes,  and  with  a  greater 
profusion  of  sweat  than  usual  over  his  hirsute 
countenance.  On  the  left  side  of  the  room 
sat  the  priest,  in  a  threadbare  snuff-coloured 

45 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

cassock,  an  old  man,  with  rough  brown  hair. 
This  head  of  hair,  and  the  dejected  lack-lustre 
eyes,  and  the  big  wrinkled  hands,  which  seemed 
a  burden  even  to  himself,  and  lay  like  two 
rocks  on  his  knees,  and  the  tarred  boots  which 
peeped  out  beneath  his  cassock,  all  seemed 
to  tell  of  a  joyless  laborious  life.  His  parish 
was  a  very  poor  one.  Beside  him  was  the 
local  police  captain,  a  fattish,  palish,  dirty- 
looking  little  gentleman,  with  soft  puffy  little 
hands  and  feet,  black  eyes,  black  short-clipped 
moustaches,  a  continual  cheerful  but  yet  sickly 
little  smile  on  his  face.  He  had  the  reputation 
of  being  a  great  taker  of  bribes,  and  even  a 
tyrant,  as  the  expression  was  in  those  days. 
But  not  only  the  gentry,  even  the  peasants 
were  used  to  him,  and  liked  him.  He  bent  very 
free  and  easy  and  rather  ironical  looks  around 
him  ;  it  was  clear  that  all  this  *  procedure  * 
amused  him.  In  reality,  the  only  part  that 
had  any  interest  for  him  was  the  light  lunch 
and  spirits  in  store  for  us.  But  the  attorney 
sitting  near  him,  a  lean  man  with  a  long  face, 
narrow  whiskers  from  his  ears  to  his  nose,  as 
they  were  worn  in  the  days  of  Alexander  the 
First,  was  absorbed  with  his  whole  soul  in 
Martin  Petrovitch's  proceedings,  and  never 
took  his  big  serious  eyes  off  him.  In  his  con- 
centrated attention  and  sympathy,  he  kept 
moving  and  twisting  his  lips,  though  without 
opening  his  mouth.     Souvenir  stationed  him- 

46 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

self  next  him,  and  began  talking  to  him  in  a 
whisper,  after  first  informing  me  that  he  was 
the  chief  freemason  in  the  province.  The 
temporary  division  of  the  local  court  consists, 
as  every  one  knows,  of  the  police  captain,  the 
attorney,  and  the  rural  police  commissioner ; 
but  the  latter  was  either  absent  or  kept  him- 
self in  the  background,  so  that  I  did  not  notice 
him.  He  bore,  however,  the  nickname  'the 
non-existent'  among  us  in  the  district,  just  as 
there  are  tramps  called  *  the  non-identified/  I 
sat  next  Souvenir,  Kvitsinsky  next  me.  The 
face  of  the  practical  Pole  showed  unmistake- 
able  annoyance  at  our  'wholly  superfluous* 
expedition,  and  unnecessary  waste  of  time. 
.  .  .  '  A  grand  lady's  caprices !  these  Russian 
grandees'  fancies  ! '  he  seemed  to  be  murmuring 
to  himself.  ...    '  Ugh,  these  Russians  !  * 


47 


XII 


When  we  were  all  seated,  Martin  Petrovitch 
hunched  his  shoulders,  cleared  his  throat, 
scanned  us  all  with  his  bear-like  little  eyes, 
and  with  a  noisy  sigh  began  as  follows : 

*  Gentlemen,  I  have  called  you  together  for 
the  following  purpose.  I  am  grown  old,  gentle- 
men, and  overcome  by  infirmities.  .  .  .  Already 
I  have  had  an  intimation,  the  hour  of  death 
steals  on,  like  a  thief  in  the  night.  .  .  .  Isn't 
that  so,  father  ? '  he  addressed  the  priest. 

The  priest  started.  '  Quite  so,  quite  so,'  he 
mumbled,  his  beard  shaking. 

*  And  therefore,'  continued  Martin  Petro- 
vitch, suddenly  raising  his  voice,  '  not  wishing 
the  said  death  to  come  upon  me  unawares,  I 
purposed  *  .  .  .  Martin  Petrovitch  proceeded 
to  repeat,  word  for  word,  the  speech  he  had 
made  to  my  mother  two  days  before.  *  In 
accordance  with  this  my  determination,'  he 
shouted  louder  than  ever,  'this  deed'  (he 
struck  his  hand  on  the  papers  lying  on  the 
table)  *has  been  drawn  up  by  me,  and  the 
presiding  authorities  have  been  invited  by  me, 

48 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

and  wherein  my  will  consists  the  following 
points  will  treat.  I  have  ruled,  my  day  is 
over ! '  / 

Martin  Petrovitch  put  his  round  iron  spec- 
tacles on  his  nose,  took  one  of  the  written 
sheets  from  the  table,  and  began : 

*  Deed  of  partition  of  the  estate  of  the  retired 
non-commissioned  officer  and  nobleman,  Martin 
Harlov,  drawn  up  by  himself  in  his  full  and 
right  understanding,  and  by  his  own  good 
judgment,  and  wherein  is  precisely  defined 
what  benefits  are  assigned  to  his  two  daughters, 
Anna  and  Evlampia — bow!' — (they  bowed), 
'  and  in  what  way  the  serfs  and  other  property, 
and  live  stock,  be  apportioned  between  the 
said  daughters  !     Under  my  hand  ! ' 

'  This  is  their  document ! '  the  police  captain 
whispered  to  Kvitsinsky,  with  his  invariable 
smile,  '  they  want  to  read  it  for  the  beauty  of 
the  style,  but  the  legal  deed  is  made  out  for- 
mally, without  all  these  flourishes.' 

Souvenir  was  beginning  to  snigger.  .  .  . 

*  In  accordance  with  my  will,'  put  in  Harlov, 
who  had  caught  the  police  captain's  remark. 

*  In  accordance  in  every  point,'  the  latter 
hastened  to  respond  cheerfully ;  '  only,  as 
you  're  aware,  Martin  Petrovitch,  there 's  no 
dispensing  with  formality.  And  unnecessary 
details  have  been  removed.  For  the  chamber 
can't  enter  into  the  question  of  spotted  cows 
and  fancy  drakes.' 

49  l> 


A  l£ar  of  the  steppes 

*  Come  here ! '  boomed  Harlov  to  his  son-in- 
law,  who  had  come  into  the  room  behind  us, 
and  remained  standing  with  an  obsequious  air 
near  the  door.  He  skipped  up  to  his  father-in- 
law  at  once. 

'There,  take  it  and  read  !  It's  hard  for  me. 
Only  mind  and  don't  mumble  it !  Let  all  the 
gentlemen  present  be  able  to  understand  it' 

Sletkin  took  the  paper  in  both  hands,  and 
began  timidly,  but  distinctly,  and  with  taste 
and  feeling,  to  read  the  deed  of  partition. 
There  was  set  forth  in  it  with  the  greatest 
accuracy  just  what  was  assigned  to  Anna  and 
what  to  Evlampia,  and  how  the  division  was 
to  be  made.  Harlov  from  time  to  time  inter- 
spersed the  reading  with  phrases.  *  Do  you 
hear,  that 's  for  you,  Anna,  for  your  zeal ! '  or, 
*  That  I  give  you,  Evlampia ! '  and  both  the 
sisters  bowed,  Anna  from  the  waist,  Evlampia 
simply  with  a  motion  of  the  head.  Harlov 
looked  at  them  with  stern  dignity.  *  The  farm 
house'  (the  little  new  building)  was  assigned 
by  him  to  Evlampia,  as  the  younger  daughter, 
*by  the  well-known  custom.'  The  reader's 
voice  quivered  and  resounded  at  these  words, 
unfavourable  for  himself;  while  Zhitkov  licked 
his  lips.  Evlampia  gave  him  a  sidelong  glance  ; 
had  I  been  in  Zhitkov's  shoes,  I  should  not  have 
liked  that  glance.  The  scornful  expression, 
characteristic  of  Evlampia,  as  of  every  genuine 
Russian  beauty,  had  a  peculiar  shade  at  that 

50 


A  LEAR   OF  THE   STEPPES 

moment.  For  himself,  Martin  Petrovitch 
reserved  the  right  to  go  on  living  in  the  rooms 
he  occupied,  and  assigned  to  himself,  under 
the  name  of  '  rations,'  a  full  allowance  *  of 
normal  provisions,'  and  ten  roubles  a  month 
for  clothes.  The  last  phrase  of  the  deed 
Harlov  wished  to  read  himself.  *  And  this 
my  parental  will,'  it  ran,  *  to  carry  out  and 
observe  is  a  sacred  and  binding  duty  on  my 
daughters,  seeing  it  is  a  command  ;  seeing 
that  I  am,  after  God,  their  father  and  head, 
and  am  not  bounden  to  render  an  account  to 
any,  nor  have  so  rendered.  And  do  they  carry 
out  my  will,  so  will  my  fatherly  blessing  be 
with  them,  but  should  they  not  so  do,  which 
God  forbid,  then  will  they  be  overtaken  by  my 
paternal  curse  that  cannot  be  averted,  now  and 
for  ever,  amen  ! '  Harlov  raised  the  deed  high 
above  his  head.  Anna  at  once  dropped  on  her 
knees  and  touched  the  ground  with  her  fore- 
head ;  her  husband,  too,  doubled  up  after  her. 
'  Well,  and  you  ? '  Harlov  turned  to  Evlampia. 
She  crimsoned  all  over,  and  she  too  bowed  to 
the  earth ;  Zhitkov  bent  his  whole  carcase 
forward. 

'  Sign  ! '  cried  Harlov,  pointing  his  forefinger 
to  the  bottom  of  the  deed.  *  Here  :  "  I  thank 
and  accept,  Anna.  I  thank  and  accept,  Ev- 
lampia ! " ' 

Both  daughters  rose,  and  signed  one  after 
another.  "Sletkin    rose   too,  and   was  feeling 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

after  the  pen,  but  Harlov  moved  him  aside, 
sticking  his  middle  finger  into  his  cravat,  so 
that  he  gasped.  The  silence  lasted  a  moment. 
Suddenly  Martin  Petrovitch  gave  a  sort  of  sob, 
and  muttering,  *  Well,  now  it 's  all  yours ! ' 
moved  away.  His  daughters  and  son-in-law 
looked  at  one  another,  went  up  to  him  and 
began  kissing  him  just  above  his  elbow.  His 
Nk       I   shoulder  they  could  not  reach. 


53 


XIII 

The  police  captain  read  the  real  formal 
document,  the  deed  of  gift,  drawn  up  by  Martin 
Petrovitch.  Then  he  went  out  on  to  the  steps 
with  the  attorney  and  explained  what  had 
taken  place  to  the  crowd  assembled  at  the 
gates,  consisting  of  the  witnesses  required  by 
law  and  other  people  from  the  neighbourhood, 
Harlov's  peasants,  and  a  few  house-serfs.  Then 
began  the  ceremony  of  the  new  owners  entering 
into  possession.  They  came  out,  too,  upon 
the  steps,  and  the  police  captain  pointed  to 
them  when,  slightly  scowling  with  one  eyebrow, 
while  his  careless  face  assumed  for  an  instant 
a  threatening  air,  he  exhorted  the  crowd  to 
'subordination.'  He  might  well  have  dispensed 
with  these  exhortations :  a  less  unruly  set  of 
countenances  than  those  of  the  Harlov  peasants, 
I  imagine,  have  never  existed  in  creation. 
Clothed  in  thin  smocks  and  torn  sheepskins, 
but  very  tightly  girt  round  their  waists,  as  is 
always  the  peasants'  way  on  solemn  occasions, 
they  stood  motionless  as  though  cut  out  of 
stone,  and  whenever  the  police  captain  uttered 

53 


I  I 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

any  exclamation  such  as,  *D'ye  hear,  you 
brutes  ?  d'  ye  understand,  you  devils  ? '  they 
suddenly  bowed  all  at  once,  as  though  at  the 
word  of  command.  Each  of  these  'brutes  and 
devils'  held  his  cap  tight  in  both  hands,  and 
never  took  his  eyes  off  the  window,  where 
Martin  Petrovitch's  figure  was  visible.  The 
witnesses  themselves  were  hardly  less  awed. 
*  Is  any  impediment  known  to  you,'  the  police 
captain  roared  at  them,  '  agahist  the  entrance 
into  possession  of  these  the  sole  and  legitimate 
heirs  and  daughters  of  Martin  Petrovitch 
Harlov  ? ' 

All  the  witnesses  seemed  to  huddle  together 
at  once. 

*  Do  you  know  any,  you  devils  ? '  the  police 
captain  shouted  again. 

*  We  know  nothing,  your  excellency,*  re- 
sponded sturdily  a  little  old  man,  marked  with 
small-pox,  with  a  clipped  beard  and  whiskers, 
an  old  soldier. 

'  I  say  !  Eremeitch  's  a  bold  fellow ! '  the 
witnesses  said  of  him  as  they  dispersed. 

In  spite  of  the  police  captain's  entreaties, 
Harlov  would  not  come  out  with  his  daughters 
on  to  the  steps.  '  My  subjects  will  obey  my 
will  without  that ! '  he  answered.  Something 
like  sadness  had  come  over  him  on  the  comple- 
tion of  the  conveyance.  His  face  had  grown 
pale.  This  new  unprecedented  expression  of 
sadness   looked   so   out    of    place   on   Martin 

54 


I 


^ 


A   LEAR   OF  THE  STEPPES 

Petrovitch's  broad  and  kindly  features  that  I 
positively  was  at  a  loss  what  to  think.  Was 
an  attack  of  melancholy  coming  over  him? 
The  peasants,  on  their  side,  too,  were  obviously 
puzzled.  And  no  wonder!  'The  master's 
alive, — there  he  stands,  and  such  a  master,  too  ; 
Martin  Petrovitch !  And  all  of  a  sudden  he 
won't  be  their  owner.  ...  A  queer  thing!' 
I  don't  know  whether  Harlov  had  an  inkling 
of  the  notions  that  were  straying  through  his 

•  subjects' '  heads,  or  whether  he  wanted  to 
display  his  power  for  the  last  time,  but  he 
suddenly  opened  the  little  window,  stuck  his 
head  out,  and  shouted  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 

*  obedience  ! '  Then  he  slammed-to  the  window. 
The  peasants'  bewilderment  was  certainly  not 
dispelled  nor  decreased  by  this  proceeding. 
They  became  stonier  than  ever,  and  even 
seemed  to  cease  looking  at  anything.  The 
group  of  house-serfs  (among  them  were  two 
sturdy  wenches,  in  short  chintz  gowns,  with 
muscles  such  as  one  might  perhaps  match  in 
Michael  Angelo's  '  Last  Judgment,'  and  one 
utterly  decrepit  old  man,  hoary  with  age  and 
half  blind,  in  a  threadbare  frieze  cloak,  rumoured 
to  have  been  'cornet-player'  in  the  days  of 
Potemkin, — the  page  Maximka,  Harlov  had 
reserved  for  himself)  this  group  showed  more 
life  than  the  peasants ;  at  least,  it  moved  rest- 
lessly about.  The  new  mistresses  themselves 
were  very  dignified  in  their  attitude,  especially 

55 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Anna.  Her  thin  lips  tightly  compressed,  she 
looked  obstinately  down  .  .  .  her  stern  figure 
augured  little  good  to  the  house-serfs.  Ev- 
lampia,  too,  did  not  raise  her  eyes ;  only  once 
she  turned  round  and  deliberately,  as  it  were 
with  surprise,  scanned  her  betrothed,  Zhitkov, 
who  had  thought  fit,  following  Sletkin,  to  come 
out,  too,  on  to  the  steps.  *  What  business  have 
you  here  ? '  those  handsome  prominent  eyes 
seemed  to  demand.  Sletkin  was  the  most 
changed  of  all.  A  bustling  cheeriness  showed 
itself  in  his  whole  bearing,  as  though  he  were 
overtaken  by  hunger ;  the  movements  of  his 
head  and  his  legs  were  as  obsequious  as  ever, 
but  how  gleefully  he  kept  working  his  arms, 
how  fussily  he  twitched  his  shoulder-blades. 
*  Arrived  at  last ! '  he  seemed  to  say.  Having 
finished  the  ceremony  of  the  entrance  into 
possession,  the  police  captain,  whose  mouth 
was  literally  watering  at  the  prospect  of  lunch, 
rubbed  his  hands  in  that  peculiar  manner  which 
usually  precedes  the  tossing-off  of  the  first 
glass  of  spirits.  But  it  appeared  that  Martin 
Petrovitch  wished  first  to  have  a  service  per- 
formed with  sprinklings  of  holy  water.  The 
priest  put  on  an  ancient  and  decrepit  chasuble  ; 
a  decrepit  deacon  came  out  of  the  kitchen, 
with  difficulty  kindling  the  incense  in  an  old 
brazen  church-vessel.  The  service  began. 
Harlov  sighed  continually ;  he  was  unable, 
owing  to  his  corpulence,  to  bow  to  the  ground, 

56 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

but  crossing  himself  with  his  right  hand  and 
bending  his  head,  he  pointed  with  the  fore- 
finger of  his  left  hand  to  the  floor.  Sletkin 
positively  beamed  and  even  shed  tears.  Zhit- 
kov,  with  dignity,  in  martial  fashion,  flourished 
his  fingers  only  slightly  between  the  third  and 
fourth  button  of  his  uniform.  Kvitsinsky,  as 
a  Catholic,  remained  in  the  next  room.  But 
the  attorney  prayed  so  fervently,  sighed  so 
sympathetically  after  Martin  Petrovitch,  and 
so  persistently  muttered  and  chewed  his  lips, 
turning  his  eyes  upwards,  that  I  felt  moved,  as 
I  looked  at  him,  and  began  to  pray  fervently 
too.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  service  and  the 
sprinkling  with  holy  water,  during  which  every 
one  present,  even  the  blind  cornet-player,  the 
contemporary  of  Potemkin,  even  Kvitsinsky, 
moistened  their  eyes  with  holy  water,  Anna  and 
Evlampia  once  more,  at  Martin  Petrovitch's 
bidding,  prostrated  themselves  to  the  ground  to 
thank  him.  Then  at  last  came  the  moment  of 
lunch.  There  were  a  great  many  dishes  and  all 
very  nice  ;  we  all  ate  terribly  much.  The  inevit- 
able bottle  of  Don  wine  made  its  appearance. 
The  police  captain,  who  was  of  all  of  us  the 
most  familiar  with  the  usages  of  the  world,  and 
besides,  the  representative  of  government,  was 
the  first  to  propose  the  toast  to  the  health  '  of 
the  fair  proprietresses  !  *  Then  he  proposed  we 
should  drink  to  the  health  of  our  most  honoured 
and    most    generous -hearted     friend,    Martin 

57 


^ 


%( 


A   LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Petrovitch.  At  the  words  *  most  generous- 
hearted/  Sletkin  uttered  a  shrill  little  cry  and 
ran  to  kiss  his  benefactor.  ...  *  There,  that  '11 
do,  that'll  do/  muttered  Harlov,  as  it  were 
with  annoyance,  keeping  him  off  with  his 
elbow  .  .  .  But  at  this  point  a  not  quite 
pleasant,  as  they  say,  incident  took  place. 


58 


XIV 


Souvenir,  who  had  been  drinking  continuously 
ever  since  the  beginning  of  luncheon,  suddenly 
got  up  from  his  chair  as  red  as  a  beetroot,  and 
pointing  his  finger  at  Martin  Petrovitch,  went 
off  into  his  mawkish,  paltry  laugh. 

*  Generous-hearted  !  Generous-hearted  ! '  he 
began  croaking ;  '  but  we  shall  see  whether 
this  generosity  will  be  much  to  his  taste  when 
he's  stripped  naked,  the  servant  of  God  .  .  . 
and  out  in  the  snow,  too  ! ' 

*  What  rot  are  you  talking,  fool  ? '  said  Harlov 
contemptuously. 

'  Fool !  fool ! '  repeated  Souvenir.  '  God 
Almighty  alone  knows  which  of  us  is  the  real 
fool.  But  you,  brother,  did  my  sister,  your 
wife,  to  her  death,  and  now  you  Ve  done  for 
yourself  .  .  .  ha-ha-ha ! ' 

'  How  dare  you  insult  our  honoured  bene- 
factor?' Sletkin  began  shrilly,  and,  tearing 
himself  away  from  Martin  Petrovitch,  whose 
shoulder  he  had  clutched,  he  flew  at  Souvenir. 
*  But  let  me  tell  you,  if  our  benefactor  desires 
it,  we  can  cancel  the  deed  this  very  minute  ! ' 

59 


^:  ? 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

*  And  yet,  you  '11  strip  him  naked,  and  turn 
him  out  into  the  snow  .  .  .'  returned  Souvenir, 
retreating  behind  Kvitsinsky. 

*  Silence  ! '  thundered  Harlov.  *  I  '11  pound 
you  into  a  jelly  !  And  you  hold  your  tongue 
too,  puppy  ! '  he  turned  to  Sletkin  ;  '  don't  put 
in  your  word  where  you  're  not  wanted  !  If  I, 
Martin  Petrovitch  Harlov,  have  decided  to 
make  a  deed  of  partition,  who  can  cancel  the 
same  act  against  my  will  ?  Why,  in  the  whole 
world  there  is  no  power.'  .  .  . 

*  Martin  Petrovitch  ! '  the  attorney  began  in  a 
mellow  bass — he  too  had  drunk  a  good  deal, 
but  his  dignity  was  only  increased  thereby — 
*but  how  if  the  gentleman  has  spoken  the 
truth  ?  You  have  done  a  generous  action  ;  to  be 
sure,  but  how  if — God  forbid — in  reality  in  place 
of  fitting  gratitude,  some  affront  come  of  it?' 

I  stole  a  glance  at  both  Martin  Petrovitch's 
daughters.  Anna's  eyes  were  simply  pinned 
upon  the  speaker,  and  a  face  more  spiteful, 
more  snake-like,  and  more  beautiful  in  its  very 
spite  I  had  certainly  never  seen !  Evlampia 
sat  turned  away,  with  her  arms  folded.  A 
smile  more  scornful  than  ever  curved  her  full, 
rosy  lips. 

Harlov  got  up  from  his  chair,  opened  his 
mouth,  but  apparently  his  tongue  failed  him. 
,  .  .  He  suddenly  brought  his  fist  down  on  the 
table,  so  that  everything  in  the  room  danced 
and  rang, 

60 


.A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

'Father/  Anna  said  hurriedly,  'they  do  not 
know  us,  and  that  is  why  they  judge  of  us  so. 
But  don't,  please,  make  yourself  ill.  You  are 
angered  for  nothing,  indeed  ;  see,  your  face  is, 
as  it  were,  twisted  awry.' 

Harlov  looked  towards  Evlampia ;  she  did 
not  stir,  though  Zhitkov,  sitting  beside  her, 
gave  her  a  poke  in  the  side. 

'  Thank  you,  my  daughter  Anna,'  said  Harlov 
huskily;  'you  are  a  sensible  girl;  I  rely  upon 
you  and  on  your  husband  too.'  Sletkin  once 
more  gave  vent  to  a  shrill  little  sound  ;  Zhitkov 
expanded  his  chest  and  gave  a  little  scrape 
with  his  foot ;  but  Harlov  did  not  observe  his 
efforts.  '  This  dolt,'  he  went  on,  with  a  motion 
of  his  chin  in  the  direction  of  Souvenir,  'is 
pleased  to  get  a  chance  to  teaze  me ;  but  you, 
my  dear  sir,'  he  addressed  himself  to  the 
attorney,  '  it  is  not  for  you  to  pass  judgment 
on  Martin  Harlov ;  that  is  something  beyond 
you.  Though  you  are  a  man  in  official  posi- 
tion, your  words  are  most  foolish.  Besides,  the 
deed  is  done,  there  will  be  no  going  back  from 
my  determination.  .  .  .  Now,  I  will  wish  you 
good-day,  I  am  going  away.  I  am  no  longer 
the  master  of  this  house,  but  a  guest  in  it. 
Anna,  do  you  do  your  best ;  but  I  will  go  to 
my  own  room.     Enough  ! ' 

Martin  Petrovitch  turned  his  back  on  us,  and, 
without  adding  another  word,  walked  deliber- 
ately out  of  the  room. 

6i 


I 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

This  sudden  withdrawal  on  the  part  of  our 
host  could  not  but  break  up  the  party,  especially 
as  the  two  hostesses  also  vanished  not  long  after. 
Sletkin  vainly  tried  to  keep  us.  The  police 
captain  did  not  fail  to  blame  the  attorney  for 
his  uncalled-for  candour.  *  Couldn't  help  it!'  the 
latter  responded.  .  .  .  '  My  conscience  spoke.' 

*  There,  you  see  that  he 's  a  mason,'  Souvenir 
whispered  to  me. 

*  Conscience ! '  retorted  the  police  captain. 
'  We  know  all  about  your  conscience !  I  sup- 
pose it's  in  your  pocket,  just  the  same  as  it 
is  with  us  sinners  ! ' 

The  priest,  meanwhile,  even  though  already 
on  his  feet,  foreseeing  the  speedy  termination 
of  the  repast,  lifted  mouthful  after  mouthful  to 
his  mouth  without  a  pause. 

'You've  got  a  fine  appetite,  I  see,'  Sletkin 
observed  to  him  sharply. 

'  Storing  up  for  the  future,'  the  priest  re- 
sponded with  a  meek  grimace  ;  years  of  hunger 
were  expressed  in  that  reply. 

The  carriages  rattled  up  .  .  .  and  we  sepa- 
rated. On  the  way  home,  no  one  hindered 
Souvenir's  chatter  and  silly  tricks,  as  Kvitsinsky 
had  announced  that  he  was  sick  of  all  this 
'wholly  superfluous'  unpleasantness,  and  had 
set  off  home  before  us  on  foot.  In  his  place, 
Zhitkov  took  a  seat  in  our  coach.  The  re- 
tired major  wore  a  most  dissatisfied  expression, 
and  kept  twitching  his  moustaches  like  a  spider. 

62 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

*  Well, your  noble  Excellency/  lisped  Souvenir, 
'is  subordination  exploded,  eh?  Wait  a  bit 
and  see  what  will  happen  !  They  '11  give  you 
the  sack  too.  Ah,  a  poor  bridegroom  you  are, 
a  poor  bridegroom,  an  unlucky  bridegroom  ! ' 

Souvenir  was  positively  beside  himself;  while 
poor  Zhitkov  could  do  nothing  but  twitch  his 
moustaches. 

When  I  got  home  I  told  my  mother  all  I 
had  seen.  She  heard  me  to  the  end,  and  shook 
her  head  several  times.  '  It 's  a  bad  business/ 
was  her  comment,  *  I  don't  like  all  these 
innovations ! ' 


63 


h 


XV 


Next  day  Martin  Petrovitch  came  to  dinner. 
My  mother  congratulated  him  on  the  successful 
conclusion  of  his  project.  *  You  are  now  a  free 
man,'  she  said, '  and  ought  to  feel  more  at  ease/ 

*  More  at  ease,  to  be  sure,  madam,'  answered 
Martin  Petrovitch,  by  no  means,  however,  show- 
ing in  the  expression  of  his  face  that  he  really 
was  more  at  ease.  *  Now  I  can  meditate  upon 
my  soul,  and  make  ready  for  my  last  hour,  as 
I  ought' 

*Well,'  queried  my  mother,  *and  do  the 
shooting  pains  still  tingle  in  your  arms  ? ' 

j  Harlov  twice  clenched  and  unclenched  his 
left  arm.  '  They  do,  madam  ;  and  I  Ve  some- 
thing  else  to  tell  you.     As   I   begin  to  drop 

I    asleep,   some   one    cries   in   my   head,   "Take 

*    care  ! "  "  Take  care  ! " ' 

*  That's  nerves,'  observed  my  mother,  and 
she  began  speaking  of  the  previous  day,  and 
referred  to  certain  circumstances  which  had 
attended  the  completion  of  the  deed  of  parti- 
tion. .  .  . 

*To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,'  Harlov  interrupted 

64 


A   LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

her, '  there  was  something  of  the  sort  ...  of  no 
consequence.  Only  there 's  something  I  would 
tell  you/  he  added,  hesitating — '  I  was  not  dis- 
turbed yesterday  by  Souvenir's  silly  words — 
even  Mr.  Attorney,  though  he 's  no  fool — even 
he   did    not    trouble    me ;    no,   it   was    quite 

another    person    disturbed     me '       Here 

Harlov  faltered. 

*  Who  ? '  asked  my  mother. 

Harlov  fastened  his  eyes  upon  her : 
*  Evlampia ! ' 

'Evlampia?  Your  daughter?  How  was 
that  ? ' 

*  Upon  my  word,  madam,  she  was  like  a 
stone !  nothing  but  a  statue !  Can  it  be  she 
has  no  feeling?  Her  sister,  Anna — well,  she 
was  all  she  should  be.  She's  a  keen-witted 
creature  !  But  Evlampia — why,  I  'd  shown  her 
— I  must  own — so  much  partiality  !  Can  it  be 
she's  no  feeling  for  me!  It's  clear  I 'm  in  a 
bad  way  ;  it 's  clear  I  've  a  feeling  that  I  'm  not 
long  for  this  world,  since  I  make  over  every- 
thing to  them  ;  and  yet  she 's  like  a  stone !  she 
might  at  least  utter  a  sound  !  Bows — yes,  she 
bows,  but  there's  no  thankfulness  to  be 
seen.' 

*  There,  give  over,'  observed  my  mother,  *  we  '11 
marry  her  to  Gavrila  Fedulitch  .  .  .  she  '11  soon 
get  softer  in  his  hands.' 

Martin  Petrovitch  once  more  looked  from 
under  his  brows  at  my  mother.     *  Well,  there 's 

65  E 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Gavrila  Fedulitch,  to  be  sure !     You  have  con- 
fidence in  him,  then,  madam?' 

*  I  've  confidence  in  him.' 

*  Very  well ;  you  should  know  best,  to  be 
sure.  But  Evlampia,  let  me  tell  you,  is  like 
me.  The  character  is  just  the  same.  She 
has  the  wild  Cossack  blood,  and  her  heart's 
like  a  burning  coal !  * 

*  Why,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  've  a 
heart  like  that,  my  dear  sir  ? ' 

Harlov  made  no  answer.  A  brief  silence 
followed. 

'  What  are  yc^u  going  to  do,  Martin  Petro- 
vitch,'  my  mother  began,  *  in  what  way  do  you 
mean  to  set  about  saving  your  soul  now  ?  Will 
you  set  off  to  Mitrophan  or  to  Kiev,  or  may 
be  you  '11  go  to  the  Optin  desert,  as  it 's  in  the 
neighbourhood  ?  There,  they  do  say,  there 's 
a  holy  monk  appeared  .  .  .  Father  Makary 
they  call  him,  no  one  remembers  any  one  like 
him  !     He  sees  right  through  all  sins.' 

*  If  she  really  turns  out  an  ungrateful  daughter,' 
Harlov  enunciated  in  a  husky  voice,  'then  it 
would  be  better  for  me,  I  believe,  to  kill  her 
with  my  own  hands  ! ' 

*  What  are  you  saying  !  Lord,  have  mercy  on 
you  ! '  cried  my  mother.  *  Think  what  you  're 
saying !  There,  see,  what  a  pretty  pass  it 's 
come  to.  You  should  have  listened  to  me  the 
other  day  when  you  came  to  consult  me !  Now, 
here,  you  '11  go  tormenting  yourself,  instead  of 

^6 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

thinking  of  your  soul !  You  '11  be  torment- 
ing yourself,  and  all  to  no  purpose!  Yesl 
Here  you  're  complaining  now,  and  faint- 
hearted .  .  .' 

This  reproach  seemed  to  stab  Harlov  to  the 
heart.  All  his  old  pride  came  back  to  him 
with  a  rush.  He  shook  himself,  and  thrust 
out  his  chin.  *  I  am  not  a  man,  madam,  Natalia 
Nikolaevna,  to  complain  or  be  faint-hearted,' he 
began  sullenly.  *  I  simply  wished  to  reveal  my 
feelings  to  you  as  my  benefactress  and  a  person 
I  respect.  But  the  Lord  God  knows  (here  he 
raised  his  hand  high  above  his  head)  that  this 
globe  of  earth  may  crumble  to  pieces  before  I 
,  will  go  back  from  my  word,  or  .  .  .  (here  he 
I  positively  snorted)  show  a  faint  heart,  or  regret 
what  I  have  done !  I  had  good  reasons,  be 
sure !  My  daughters  will  never  forget  their 
duty,  for  ever  and  ever,  amen  !  * 

My  mother  stopped  her  ears.  *  What 's  this 
for,  my  good  sir,  like  a  trumpet-blast!  If  you 
really  have  such  faith  in  your  family,  well,  praise 
the  Lord  for  it !  You  've  quite  put  my  brains 
in  a  whirl ! ' 

Martin  Petrovitch  begged  pardon,  sighed 
twice,  and  was  silent.  My  mother  once  more 
referred  to  Kiev,  the  Optin  desert,  and  Father 
Makary.  .  .  .  Harlov  assented,  said  that  *he 
must  ...  he  must  ...  he  would  have  to  .  .  . 
his  soul'  .  .  .  and  that  was  all.  He  did  not 
regain  his  cheerfulness  before  he  went  away. 

67 


A  LEAR  OF   THE   STEPPES 

From  time  to  time  he  clenched  and  unclenched 
his  fist,  looked  at  his  open  hand,  said  that  what 
he  feared  above  everything  was  dying  without    | 
repentance,  from  a  stroke,  and   that    he    had   f 
made  a  vow  to  himself  not  to  get  angry,  as    - 
anger  vitiated  his  blood  and  drove  it  to  his 
head.  .  .  .  Besides,  he  had  now  withdrawn  from 
everything.     What  grounds  could  he  have  for 
getting  angry  ?    Let  other  people  trouble  them- 
selves now  and  vitiate  their  blood  ! 

As  he  took  leave  of  my  mother  he  looked  at 
her  in  a  strange  way,  mournfully  and  question- 
ingly  . . .  and  suddenly,  with  a  rapid  movement, 
drew  out  of  his  pocket  the  volume  of  The 
Worker's  Leisure- H our ^  and  thrust  it  into  my 
mother's  hand. 

'  What 's  that  ? '  she  inquired. 

'Read  .  .  .  here,'  he  said  hurriedly,  *  where 
the  corner's  turned  down,  about  death.  It 
seems  to  me,  it 's  terribly  well  said,  but  I  can't 
make  it  out  at  all.  Can't  you  explain  it  to  me, 
my  benefactress  ?  I  '11  come  back  again  and 
you  explain  it  me.' 

With  these  words  Martin  Petrovitch  went 
away. 

*  He 's  in  a  bad  way,  he 's  in  a  bad  way,' 
observed  my  mother,  directly  he  had  disap- 
peared through  the  doorway,  and  she  set  to 
work  upon  the  Leisure-Hour.  On  the  page 
turned  down  by  Harlov  were  the  following 
words : 

68 


A   LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

Death  is  a  grand  and  solemn  work  of 
nature.  It  is  nothing  else  than  that  the  spirit, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  lighter,  finer,  and  infinitely- 
more  penetrating  than  those  elements  under 
whose  sway  it  has  been  subject,  nay,  even  than 
the  force  of  electricity  itself,  so  is  chemically 
purified  and  striveth  upward  till  what  time  it 
attaineth  an  equally  spiritual  abiding-place  for/ 
itself  .  .  .'  and  so  on. 

My  mother  read  this  passage  through  twice, 
and  exclaiming,  *  Pooh ! '  she  flung  the  book 
away. 

Three  days  later,  she  received  the  news  that 
her  sister's  husband  was  dead,  and  set  off  to 
her  sister's  country-seat,  taking  me  with  her. 
My  mother  proposed  to  spend  a  month  with 
her,  but  she  stayed  on  till  late  in  the  autumn, 
and  it  was  only  at  the  end  of  September  that 
we  returned  to  our  own  estate. 


69 


/ 


XVI 

The  first  news  with  which  my  valet,  Prokofy, 
greeted  me  (he  regarded  himself  as  the  seig- 
norial  huntsman)  was  that  there  was  an  immense 
number  of  wild  snipe  on  the  wing,  and  that  in 
the  birch-copse  near  Eskovo(Harlov's  property), 
especially,  they  were  simply  swarming.  I  had 
three  hours  before  me  till  dinner-time.  I 
promptly  seized  my  gun  and  my  game-bag, 
and  with  Prokofy  and  a  setter-dog,  hastened 
to  the  Eskovo  copse.  We  certainly  did  find  a 
great  many  wild  snipe  there,  and,  firing  about 
thirty  charges,  killed  five.  As  I  hurried 
homewards  with  my  booty,  I  saw  a  peasant 
ploughing  near  the  road-side.  His  horse  had 
stopped,  and  with  tearful  and  angry  abuse  he 
was  mercilessly  tugging  with  the  cord  reins  at 
the  animal's  head,  which  was  bent  on  one  side. 
I  looked  attentively  at  the  luckless  beast, 
whose  ribs  were  all  but  through  its  skin,  and, 
bathed  in  sweat,  heaved  up  and  down  with 
convulsive,  irregular  movements  like  a  black- 
smith's bellows,^!  recognised  it  at  once  as 
the  decrepit  old  mare,  with  the  scar  on  her 

70 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

shoulder,  who  had  served    Martin    Petrovitch 
so  many  years. 

*  Is  Mr.  Harlov  living?'  I  asked  Prokofy. 
The  chase  had  so  completely  absorbed  us,  that 
up  to  that  instant  we  had  not  talked  of  any- 
thing. 

'  Yes,  he 's  alive.     Why  ? ' 

*  But  that 's  his  mare,  isn't  it  ?  Do  you  mean 
to  say  he 's  sold  her  ? ' 

*  His  mare  it  is,  to  be  sure ;  but  as  to  selling, 
he  never  sold  her.  But  they  took  her  away 
from  him,  and  handed  her  over  to  that  peasant.' 

*  How,  took  it  ?     And  he  consented  ? ' 

*  They  never  asked  his  consent.  Things  have 
changed  here  in  your  absence,'  Prokofy  observed, 
with  a  faint  smile  in  response  to  my  look  of 
amazement ;  '  worse  luck  !  My  goodness,  yes  ! 
Now  Sletkin  's  master,  and  orders  every  one 
about.' 

'  But  Martin  Petrovitch  ?  ' 

'Why,  Martin  Petrovitch  has  become  the 
very  last  person  here,  you  may  say.  He 's  on 
bread  and  water, — what  more  can  one  say? 
They've  crushed  him  altogether.  Mark  my 
words  ;  they  '11  drive  him  out  of  the  house.'  V 

The  idea  that  it  was  possible  to  drive  such  a 
giant  had  never  entered  my  head.  *  And  what 
does  Zhitkov  say  to  it  ? '  I  asked  at  last.  *  I 
suppose  he's  married  to  the  second  daughter?' 

'  Married  ? '  repeated  Prokofy,  and  this  time 
he  grinned  all  over  his  face.     '  They  won't  let 

71 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

him  into  the  house.  "  We  don't  want  you " 
they  say  ;  "  get  along  home  with  you."  It's  as 
I  said;  Sletkin  directs  every  one.' 

*But  what  does  the  young  lady  say?* 

*  Evlampia  Martinovna  ?  Ah,  master,  I  could 
tell  you  .  .  .  but  you  're  young — one  must 
think  of  that.  Things  are  going  on  here  that 
are  ...  oh !  ...  oh !  ...  oh !  Hey !  why 
Dianka  's  setting,  I  do  believe  ! ' 

My  dog  actually  had  stopped  short,  before 
a  thick  oak  bush  which  bordered  a  narrow 
ravine  by  the  roadside.  Prokofy  and  I  ran  up 
to  the  dog ;  a  snipe  flew  up  out  of  the  bush, 
we  both  fired  at  it  and  missed  ;  the  snipe  settled 
in  another  place  ;  we  followed  it. 

The  soup  was  already  on  the  table  when  I 
got  back.  My  mother  scolded  me.  *  What 's 
the  meaning  of  it?'  she  said  with  displeasure; 
'the  very  first  day,  and  you  keep  us  waiting 
for  dinner.'  I  brought  her  the  wild  snipe  I  had 
killed  ;  she  did  not  even  look  at  them.  There 
were  also  in  the  room  Souvenir,  Kvitsinsky, 
and  Zhitkov.  The  retired  major  was  huddled 
in  a  corner,  for  all  the  world  like  a  schoolboy 
in  disgrace.  His  face  wore  an  expression  of 
mingled  confusion  and  annoyance ;  his  eyes 
were  red  .  .  .  One  might  positively  have 
imagined  he  had  recently  been  in  tears.  My 
mother  remained  in  an  ill  humour.  I  was  at 
no  great  pains  to  surmise  that  my  late  arrival 
did  not  count  for  much  in  it.     During  dinner- 

72 


i 


i 


A   LEAR   OF   THE  STEPPES 

time  she  hardly  talked  at  all.  The  major 
turned  beseeching  glances  upon  her  from 
time  to  time,  but  ate  a  good  dinner  neverthe- 
less. Souvenir  was  all  of  a  shake.  Kvitsinsky 
preserved  his  habitual  self-confidence  of  de- 
meanour. 

^Vikenty  Osipitch/  my  mother  addressed 
him, '  I  beg  you  to  send  a  carriage  to-morrow 
for  Martin  Petrovitch,  since  it  has  come  to  my 
knowledge  that  he  has  none  of  his  own.  And 
bid  them  tell  him  to  come  without  fail,  that  I 
desire  to  see  him.' 

Kvitsinsky  was  about  to  make  some  rejoinder, 
but  he  restrained  himself 

'  And  let  Sletkin  know/  continued  my  mother, 
*  that  I  command  him  to  present  himself  before 
me  .  .  .     Do  you  hear  ?     I  com  .  .  .  mand ! ' 

'Yes,  just  so  .  .  .  that  scoundrel  ought * 

Zhitkov  was  beginning  in  a  subdued  voice ;  but 
my  mother  gave  him  such  a  contemptuous 
look,  that  he  promptly  turned  away  and  was 
silent. 

'Do  you  hear?  I  command  !' repeated  my 
mother. 

'  Certainly,  madam,'  Kvitsinsky  replied  sub- 
missively but  with  dignity. 

'  Martin  Petrovitch  won't  come ! '  Souvenir 
whispered  to  me,  as  he  came  out  of  the  dining- 
room  with  me  after  dinner.  '  You  should  just 
see  what 's  happened  to  him!  It's  past  com- 
prehension !     It 's  come  to  this,  that  whatever 

73 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 


they  say  to  him,  he  doesn't  understand  a  word ! 
Yes !     They  've  got  the  snake  under  the  pitch- 
/     fork ! ' 

And  Souvenir  went   off  into   his   revolting 
laugh. 


74 


XVII 

Souvenir's  prediction  turned  out  correct. 
Martin  Petrovitch  would  not  come  to  my  mother.  ^ 
She  was  not  at  all  pleased  with  this,  and 
despatched  a  letter  to  him.  He  sent  her  a 
square  bit  of  paper,  on  which  the  following 
words  were  written  in  big  letters :  '  Indeed  I 
can't.  I  should  die  of  shame.  Let  me  go  to 
my  ruin.  Thanks.  Don't  torture  me. — Martin 
Harlov.'  Sletkin  did  come,  but  not  on  the  day 
on  which  my  mother  had  *  commanded '  his 
attendance,  but  twenty-four  hours  later.  My 
mother  gave  orders  that  he  should  be  shown 
into  her  boudoir.  .  .  .  God  knows  what  their 
interview  was  about,  but  it  did  not  last  long ; 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  not  more.  Sletkin  came 
out  of  my  mother's  room,  crimson  all  over,  and 
with  such  a  viciously  spiteful  and  insolent 
expression  of  face,  that,  meeting  him  in  the 
drawing-room,  I  was  simply  petrified,  while 
Souvenir,  who  was  hanging  about  there,  stopped 
short  in  the  middle  of  a  snigger.  My  mother 
came  out  of  her  boudoir,  also  very  red  in  the 

75 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

face,  and  announced,  in  the  hearing  of  all,  that 
Mr.  Sletkin  was  never,  upon  any  pretext,  to  be 
admitted  to  her  presence  again,  and  that  if 
Martin  Petrovitch's  daughters  were  to  make 
bold — they've  impudence  enough,  said  she — 
to  present  themselves,  they,  too,  were  to  be 
refused  admittance.  At  dinner-time  she  sud- 
denly exclaimed,  'The  vile  little  Jew  !  I  picked 
him  out  of  the  gutter,  I  made  him  a  career, 
he  owes  everything,  everything  to  me, — and  he 
dares  to  tell  me  I  've  no  business  to  meddle  in 
their  affairs  !  that  Martin  Petrovitch  is  full  of 
whims  and  fancies,  and  it 's  impossible  to 
humour  him  !  Humour  him,  indeed  !  What  a 
thing  to  say  !  Ah,  he 's  an  ungrateful  wretch  ! 
An  insolent  little  Jew  ! ' 

Major  Zhitkov,  who  happened  to  be  one  of  the 
company  at  dinner,  imagined  that  now  it  was 
no  less  than  the  will  of  the  Almighty  for  him  to 
seize  the  opportunity  and  put  in  his  word  .  .  . 
but  my  mother  promptly  settled  him.  *  Well, 
and  you  're  a  fine  one,  too,  my  man  ! '  she  com- 
mented. *  Couldn't  get  the  upper  hand  of  a 
girl,  and  he  an  officer !  In  command  of  a 
squadron  !  I  can  fancy  how  it  obeyed  you ! 
He  take  a  steward's  place  indeed  !  a  fine  steward 
he  'd  make  ! ' 

Kvitsinsky,  who  was  sitting  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  smiled  to  himself  a  little  malignantly, 
while  poor  Zhitkov  could  do  nothing  but  twitch 

his   moustaches,   lift   his   eyebrows,  and   bury 

76 


A   LEAR  OF   THE  STEPPES 

the  whole  of  his  hirsute  countenance  in  his 
napkin. 

After  dinner,  he  went  out  on  to  the  steps  to 
smoke  his  pipe  as  usual,  and  he  struck  me  as 
so  miserable  and  forlorn,  that,  although  I  had 
never  liked  him,  I  joined  myself  on  to  him  at 
once. 

'  How  was  it,  Gavrila  Fedulitch,'  I  began 
without  further  beating  about  the  bush,  'that 
your  affair  with  Evlampia  Martinovna  was 
broken  off?  I  'd  expected  you  to  be  married 
long  ago.' 

The  retired  major  looked  at  me  dejectedly. 

'A  snake  in  the  grass,'  he  began,  uttering 
each  letter  of  each  syllable  with  bitter  distinct- 
ness, '  has  poisoned  me  with  his  fang,  and  turned 
all  my  hopes  in  life  to  ashes.  And  I  could  tell 
you,  Dmitri  Semyonovitch,  all  his  hellish  wiles, 
but  I  'm  afraid  of  angering  your  mamma. 
(*  You  're    young   yet  ' — Prokofy's    expression 

flashed  across  my  mind.)     '  Even  as  it  is ' 

Zhitkov  groaned. 

'  Patience  .  .  .  patience  .  .  .  nothing  else  is 
left  me.  (He  struck  his  fist  upon  his  chest.) 
Patience,  old  soldier,  patience.  I  served  the 
Tsar  faithfully  .  .  .  honourably  .  .  .  yes.  I 
spared  neither  blood  nor  sweat,  and  now  see 
what  I  am  brought  to.  Had  it  been  in  the 
regiment — and  the  matter  depending  upon  me/ 
he  continued  after  a  short  silence,  spent  in 
convulsively  sucking  at   his  cherrywood  pipe, 

77 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

*  I  'd  have  .  .  .  I  'd  have  given  it  him  with  the 
flat  side  of  my  sword  .  .  .  three  times  over 
.  .  .  till  he  'd  had  enough  .  .  .' 

Zhitkov  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  on  vacancy,  as  though  admiring 
the  picture  he  had  conjured  up. 

Souvenir  ran  up,  and  began  quizzing  the 
major.  I  turned  away  from  them,  and  deter- 
mined, come  what  may,  I  would  see  Martin 
Petrovitch  with  my  own  eyes.  .  .  .  My  boyish 
curiosity  was  greatly  stirred. 


78 


XVIII 

Next  day  I  set  out  with  my  gun  and  dog, 
but  without  Prokofy,  to  the  Eskovo  copse.  It 
was  an  exquisite  day ;  I  fancy  there  are  no 
days  like  that  in  September  anywhere  but  in 
Russia.  The  stillness  was  such  that  one  could 
hear,  a  hundred  paces  off,  the  squirrel  hopping 
over  the  dry  leaves,  and  the  broken  twig  just 
feebly  catching  at  the  other  branches,  and  fall- 
ing, at  last,  on  the  soft  grass — to  lie  there  for 
ever,  not  to  stir  again  till  it  rotted  away.  The 
air,  neither  warm  nor  chill,  but  only  fragrant, 
and  as  it  were  keen,  was  faintly,  deliciously 
stinging  in  my  eyes  and  on  my  cheeks.  A  long 
spider-web,  delicate  as  a  silken  thread,  with  a 
white  ball  in  the  middle,  floated  smoothly  in 
the  air,  and  sticking  to  the  butt-end  of  my  gun, 
stretched  straight  out  in  the  air — a  sign  of  settled 
and  warm  weather.  The  sun  shone  with  a 
brightness  as  soft  as  moonlight.  Wild  snipe 
were  to  be  met  with  pretty  often  ;  but  I  did  not 
pay  special  attention  to  them.  I  knew  that  the 
copse  went  on  almost  to  Harlov's  homestead, 
right  up  to  the  hedge  of  his  garden,  and  I  turned 

70 


A   LEAR  OF   THE  STEPPES 

t 

my  steps  in  that  direction,  though  I  could  not 
even  imagine  how  I  should  get  into  the  place 
itself,  and  was  even  doubtful  whether  I  ought  to 
try  to  do  so,  as  my  mother  was  so  angry  with 
its  new  owners.  Sounds  of  life  and  humanity 
reached  me  from  no  great  distance.  I  listened. 
. .  .  Some  one  was  coming  through  the  copse  . . . 
straight  towards  me. 

*  You  should  have  said  so  straight  out,  dear/ 
I  heard  a  woman's  voice. 

*  Be  reasonable,'  another  voice  broke  in,  the 
voice  of  a  man.     '  Can  one  do  it  all  at  once  ? ' 

I  knew  the  voices.  There  was  the  gleam  of 
a  woman's  blue  gown  through  the  reddening 
nut  bushes.  Beside  it  stood  a  dark  full  coat. 
Another  instant — and  there  stepped  out  into 
the  glade,  five  paces  from  me,  Sletkin  and 
Evlampia. 

They  were  disconcerted  at  once.  Evlampia 
promptly  stepped  back,  away  into  the  bushes. 
Sletkin  thought  a  little,  and  came  up  to  me. 
There  was  not  a  trace  to  be  seen  in  his  face  of 
the  obsequious  meekness,  with  which  he  had 
paced  up  and  down  Harlov's  courtyard,  four 
months  before,  rubbing  up  my  horse's  snaffle. 
But  neither  could  I  perceive  in  it  the  insolent 
defiance,  which  had  so  struck  me  on  the  pre- 
vious day,  on  the  threshold  of  my  mother's 
boudoir.  It  was  still  as  white  and  pretty  as 
ever,  but  seemed  broader  and  more  solid. 

*  Well,  have  you  shot  many  snipe  ? '  he  asked 

80 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 


me,  raising  his  cap,  smiling,  and  passing  his 
hand  over  his  black  curls  ;  '  you  are  shooting  in 
our  copse.  .  .  .  You  are  very  welcome.  We 
would  not  hinder  you.  .  .  .  Quite  the  contrary.' 

*  I  have  killed  nothing  to-day,'  I  rejoined, 
answering  his  first  question  ;  '  and  I  will  go 
out  of  your  copse  this  instant.' 

Sletkin  hurriedly  put  on  his  cap.  *  Indeed, 
why  so  }  We  would  not  drive  you  out — indeed, 
we 're  delighted.  .  .  .  Here 's  Evlampia  Martin- 
ovna  will  say  the  same.  Evlampia  Martinovna, 
come  here.  Where  have  you  hidden  yourself  ? ' 
Evlampia's  head  appeared  behind  the  bushes. 
But  she  did  not  come  up  to  us.  She  had  grown 
prettier,  and  seemed  taller  and  bigger  than  ever. 

*  I  'm  very  glad,  to  tell  the  truth,'  Sletkin 
went  on, '  that  I  have  met  you.  Though  you 
are  still  young  in  years,  you  have  plenty  of 
good  sense  already.  Your  mother  was  pleased 
to  be  very  angry  with  me  yesterday — she 
would  not  listen  to  reason  of  any  sort  from  me, 
but  -I  declare,  as  before  God,  so  before  you 
now,  I  am  not  to  blame  in  any  way.  We 
can't  treat  Martin  Petrovitch  otherwise  than 
we  do;  he's  fallen  into  complete  dotage.  One 
can't  humour  all  his  whims,  really.  But  we 
show  him  all  due  respect.  Only  ask  Evlampia 
Martinovna.' 

Evlampia  did  not  stir ;  her  habitual  scornful 
smile  flickered  about  her  lips,  and  her  large 
eyes  watched  us  with  no  friendly  expression. 

8i  F 


I 


A   LEAR   OF  THE   STEPPES 

'  But  why,  Vladimir  Vassilievitch,  have  you 
sold  Martin  Petrovitch's  mare  ? '  (I  was  par- 
ticularly impressed  by  that  mare  being  in  the 
possession  of  a  peasant.) 

*  His  mare,  why  did  we  sell  it?  Why,  Lord 
have  mercy  on  us — what  use  was  she  ?  She  was 
simply  eating  her  head  off.  But  with  the  pea- 
sant she  can  work  at  the  plough  anyway.  As 
for  Martin  Petrovitch,  if  he  takes  a  fancy  to 
drive  out  anywhere,  he 's  only  to  ask  us.  We 
wouldn't  refuse  him  a  conveyance.  On  a  holi- 
day, we  should  be  pleased.' 

*  Vladimir  Vassilievitch,'  said  Evlampia  husk- 
ily, as  though  calling  him  away,  and  she  still 
did  not  stir  from  her  place.  She  was  twisting 
some  stalks  of  ripple  grass  round  her  fingers 
and  snapping  off  their  heads,  slapping  them 
against  each  other. 

'About  the  page  Maximka  again,'  Sletkin 
went  on,  *  Martin  Petrovitch  complains  because 
we've  taken  him  away  and  apprenticed  him. 
But  kindly  consider  the  matter  for  yourself 
Why,  what  had  he  to  do  waiting  on  Martin 
Petrovitch?  Kick  up  his  heels  ;  nothing  more. 
And  he  couldn't  even  wait  on  him  properly ; 
on  account  of  his  stupidity  and  his  youth. 
Now  we  have  sent  him  away  to  a  harness- 
maker's.  He'll  be  turned  into  a  first-rate 
handicraftsman — and  make  a  good  thing  of  it 
for  himself — and  pay  us  ransom-money  too. 
And,  living  in  a  small  way  as  we  do,  that 's  a 

82 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

matter  of  importance.      On  a  little  farm  like 
ours,  one  can't  afford  to  let  anything  slip.' 

*  And  this  is  the  man  Martin  Petrovitch  called 
a  "  poor  stick," '  I  thought.  *  But  who  reads  to 
Martin  Petrovitch  now  ? '  I  asked. 

'  Why,  what  is  there  to  read  ?  He  had  one 
book — but,  luckily,  that's  been  mislaid  some- 
where. .  .  .  And  what  use  is  reading  at  his  age.' 

'  And  who  shaves  him  ? '  I  asked  again. 

Sletkin  gave  an  approving  laugh,  as  though 
in  response  to  an  amusing  joke.  'Why,  no- 
body. At  first  he  used  to  singe  his  beard  in 
the  candle — but  now  he  lets  it  be  altogether. 
And  it 's  lovely  ! ' 

'  Vladimir  Vassilievitch ! '  Evlampia  repeated 
insistently  :  *  Vladimir  Vassilievitch  ! ' 

Sletkin  made  her  a  sign  with  his  hand. 

*  Ivlartin  Petrovitch  is  clothed  and  cared  for, 
and  eats  what  we  do.  What  more  does  he  want  ? 
He  declared  himself  that  he  wanted  nothing 
more  in  this  world  but  to  think  of  his  soul.  If 
only  he  would  realise  that  everything  now, 
however  you  look  at  it,  is  ours.  He  says  too 
that  we  don't  pay  him  his  allowance.  But 
we  've  not  always  got  money  ourselves ;  and 
what  does  he  want  with  it,  when  he  has  every- 
thing provided  him  ?     And  we  treat  him  as  one 

of  the  family  too.     I  'm  telling  you  the  truth.     \ 
The  rooms,  for  instance,  which  he  occupies —      \ 
how  we  need  them !  there 's  simply  not  room 
to  turn  round  without  them  ;  but  we  don't  say 

83 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

a  word — we  put  up  with  it.  We  even  think 
how  to  provide  amusement  for  him.  There,  on 
St.  Peter's  Day,  I  bought  him  some  excellent 
hooks  in  the  town — real  English  ones,  expen- 
sive hooks,  to  catch  fish.  There  are  lots  of 
carp  in  our  pond.  Let  him  sit  and  fish  ;  in  an 
hour  or  two,  there  'd  be  a  nice  little  fish  soup 
provided.  The  most  suitable  occupation  for 
old  men.' 

*  Vladimir  Vassilitch !  *  Evlampia  called  for 
the  third  time  in  an  incisive  tone,  and  she  flung 
far  away  from  her  the  grass  she  had  been 
twisting  in  her  fingers,  '  I  am  going ! '  Her 
eyes  met  mine.  '  I  am  going,  Vladimir  Vas- 
silievitch  ! '  she  repeated,  and  vanished  behind 
a  bush. 

*  I  'm  coming,  Evlampia  Martinovna,  directly!' 
shouted  Sletkin.  *  Martin  Petrovitch  himself 
agrees  with  us  now,'  he  went  on,  turning  again 
to  me.  *  At  first  he  was  offended,  certainly, 
and  even  grumbled,  until,  you  know,  he  realised ; 
he  was,  you  remember,  a  hot-tempered  violent 
man — more 's  the  pity  !  but  there,  he 's  grown 
quite  meek  now.  Because  he  sees  his  own 
interest.  Your  mamma — mercy  on  us!  how 
she  pitched  into  me !  .  .  .  To  be  sure :  she 's 
a  lady  that  sets  as  much  store  by  her  own 
authority  as  Martin  Petrovitch  used  to  do. 
But  you  come  in  and  see  for  yourself.  And 
you  might  put  in  a  word  when  there's  an 
opportunity.      I      feel     Natalia     Nikolaevna's 

64 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

bounty   to    me    deeply.      But  we've    got    to 
live  too.' 

*  And  how  was  it  Zhitkov  was  refused  ? '  I 
asked. 

'  Fedulitch  ?  That  dolt  ? '  Sletkin  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  *  Why,  upon  my  word,  what  use 
could  he  have  been?  His  whole  life  spent 
among  soldiers — and  now  he  has  a  fancy  to 
take  up  farming.  He  can  keep  the  peasants  up 
to  the  mark,  says  he,  because  he 's  been  used 
to  knocking  men  about.  He  can  do  nothing  ; 
even  knocking  men  about  wants  some  sense. 
Evlampia  Martinovna  refused  him  herself  He 
was  a  quite  unsuitable  person.  All  our  farm- 
ing would  have  gone  to  ruin  with  him  ! ' 

'  Coo — y  !'  sounded  Evlampia's  musical  voice. 

'  Coming  !  coming  ! '  Sletkin  called  back. 
He  held  out  his  hand  to  me.  Though  unwill- 
ingly, I  took  it. 

*  I  beg  to  take  leave,  Dmitri  Semyonovitch/ 
said  Sletkin,  showing  all  his  white  teeth. 
*  Shoot  wild  snipe  as  much  as  you  like.  It 's 
wild  game,  belonging  to  no  one.  But  if  you 
come  across  a  hare — you  spare  it ;  that  game 
is  ours.  Oh,  and  something  else !  won't  you 
be  having  pups  from  your  bitch  ?  I  should  be 
obliged  for  one  !  * 

*  Coo — y  ! '  Evlampia's  voice  rang  out  again. 

*  Coo — y  ! '  Sletkin  responded,  and  rushed 
into  the  bushes. 


85 


XIX 

I  REMEMBER,  when  I  was  left  alone,  I  was 
absorbed  in  wondering  how  it  was  Harlov  had 
not  pounded  Sletkin  *  into  a  jelly,'  as  he  said, 
and  how  it  was  Sletkin  had  not  been  afraid  of 
such  a  fate.  It  was  clear  Martin  Petrovitch 
really  had  grown  *  meek,'  I  thought,  and  I  had 
j  a  still  stronger  desire  to  make  my  way  into 
Eskovo,  and  get  at  least  a  glance  at  that 
colossus,  whom  I  could  never  picture  to  myself 
subdued  and  tractable.  I  had  reached  the 
edge  of  the  copse,  when  suddenly  a  big  snipe, 
with  a  great  rush  of  wings,  darted  up  at  my 
very  feet,  and  flew  off  into  the  depths  of  the 
wood.  I  took  aim ;  my  gun  missed  fire.  I 
was  greatly  annoyed ;  it  had  been  such  a  fine 
bird,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  if  I 
couldn't  make  it  rise  a  second  time.  I  set  off 
in  the  direction  of  its  flight,  and  going  some 
two  hundred  paces  off  into  the  wood  I  caught 
sight — in  a  little  glade,  under  an  overhanging 
birch-tree — not  of  the  snipe,  but  of  the  same 
Sletkin  once  more.  He  was  lying  on  his  back, 
with  both  hands  under  his  head,  and  with  a 

86 


■i' 


A    LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

smile  of  contentment  gazing  upwards  at  the 
sky,  swinging  his  left  leg,  which  was  crossed 
over  his  right  knee.     He  did  not  notice  my  ^ 

approach.  A  few  paces  from  him,  Evlampia 
was  walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  little 
glade,  with  downcast  eyes.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  were  looking  for  something  in 
the  grass — mushrooms  or  something  ;  now  and 
then,  she  stooped  and  stretched  out  her  hand. 
She  was  singing  in  a  low  voice.  I  stopped  at 
once,  and  fell  to  listening.  At  first  I  could  not 
make  out  what  it  was  she  was  singing,  but 
afterwards  I  recognised  clearly  the  following 
well-known  lines  of  the  old  ballad  : 

*  Hither,  hither,  threatening  storm-cloud, 
Slay  for  me  the  father-in-law. 
Strike  for  me  the  mother-in-law, 
The  young  wife  I  will  kill  myself ! ' 

Evlampia  sang  louder  and  louder ;  the  last 
words  she  delivered  with  peculiar  energy. 
Sletkin  still  lay  on  his  back  and  laughed  to 
himself,  while  she  seemed  all  the  time  to  be 
moving  round  and  round  him. 

*  Oh,  indeed  r  he  commented  at  last.  'The 
things  that  come  into  some  people's  heads ! ' 

'What?'  queried  Evlampia. 

Sletkin  raised  his  head  a  little.  'What? 
Why,  what  words  were  those  you  were  utter- 
ingP' 

*Why,  you  know,  Volodya,  one  can't  leave 

87 


D 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

the  words  out  of  a  song,'  answered  Evlampia, 
and  she  turned  and  saw  me.  We  both  cried 
out  aloud  at  once,  and  both  rushed  away  in 
opposite  directions. 

I  made  my  way  hurriedly  out  of  the  copse, 
and  crossing  a  narrow  clearing,  found  myself 
facing  Harlov's  garden. 


88 


XX 


I  HAD  no  time,  nor  would  it  have  been  of 
any  use,  to  deliberate  over  what  I  had  seen. 
Only  an  expression  kept  recurring  to  my 
mind,  Move  spell,'  which  I  had  lately  heard, 
and  over  the  signification  of  which  I  had 
pondered  a  good  deal.  I  walked  alongside 
the  garden  fence,  and  in  a  few  moments,  behind 
the  silver  poplars  (they  had  not  yet  lost  a 
single  leaf,  and  the  foliage  was  luxuriantly 
thick  and  brilliantly  glistening),  I  saw  the  yard 
and  two  little  lodges  of  Martin  Petrovitch's 
homestead.  The  whole  place  struck  me  as 
having  been  tidied  up  and  pulled  into  shape. 
On  every  side  one  could  perceive  traces  of 
unflagging  and  severe  supervision.  Anna 
Martinovna  came  out  on  to  the  steps,  and 
screwing  up  her  blue-grey  eyes,  gazed  for  a 
long  while  in  the  direction  of  the  copse. 

*  Have  you  seen  the  master  ? '  she  asked  a 
peasant,  who  was  walking  across  the  yard. 

*  Vladimir  Vassilitch  ? '  responded  the  latter, 
taking  his  cap  off.  *  He  went  into  the  copse, 
rurely.' 

89 


A   LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

*I  know,  he  went  to  the  copse.  Hasn't  he 
come  back  ?     Haven't  you  seen  him  ? ' 

*  I  've  not  seen  him  .  .  .  nay.' 

The  peasant  continued  standing  bareheaded 
before  Anna  Martinovna. 

*  Well,  you  can  go,'  she  said.     *  Or  no 

wait    a    bit where 's    Martin   Petrovitch? 

Do  you  know?* 

*  Oh,  Martin  Petrovitch,'  answered  the  peasant, 
in  a  sing-song  voice,  alternately  lifting  his 
right  and  then  his  left  hand,  as  though 
pointing  away  somewhere,  '  is  sitting  yonder, 
at  the  pond,  with  a  fishing-rod.  He's  sitting 
in  the  reeds,  with  a  rod.  Catching  fish,  maybe, 
God  knows.' 

*  Very  well  .  .  .  you  can  go,'  repeated  Anna 
Martinovna;  *and  put  away  that  wheel,  it's 
lying  about' 

The  peasant  ran  to  carry  out  her  command, 
while  she  remained  standing  a  few  minutes 
longer  on  the  steps,  still  gazing  in  the  direction 
of  the  copse.  Then  she  clenched  one  fist 
menacingly,  and  went  slowly  back  into  the 
house.  '  Axiutka ! '  I  heard  her  imperious 
voice  calling  within. 

Anna  Martinovna  looked  angry,  and 
tightened  her  lips,  thin  enough  at  all  times, 
with  a  sort  of  special  energy.  She  was  care- 
lessly dressed,  and  a  coil  of  loose  hair  had 
fallen  down  on  to  her  shoulder.  But  in  spite 
of  the  negligence  of  her  attire,  and  her  irritable 

90 


1 


A   LEAR   OF  THE   STEPPES 

humour,  she  struck  me,  just  as  before,  as 
attractive,  and  I  should  have  been  delighted  to 
kiss  the  narrow  hand  which  looked  malignant 
too,  as  she  twice  irritably  pushed  back  the 
loose  tress, 


91 


XXI 

*  Can  Martin  Petrovitch  have  really  taken  to 
fishing  ? '  I  asked  myself,  as  I  turned  towards 
the  pond,  which  was  on  one  side  of  the  garden. 
I  got  on  to  the  dam,  looked  in  all  directions. 
.  .  .  Martin  Petrovitch  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
I  bent  my  steps  along  one  of  the  banks  of  the 
pond,  and  at  last,  at  the  very  top  of  it,  in  a 
little  creek,  in  the  midst  of  flat  broken-down 
stalks  of  reddish  reed,  I  caught  sight  of  a  huge 
greyish  mass.  ...  I  looked  intently :  it  was 
Harlov.  Bareheaded,  unkempt,  in  a  cotton 
smock  torn  at  the  seams,  with  his  legs  crossed 
under  him,  he  was  sitting  motionless  on  the 
bare  earth.  So  motionless  was  he  that  a 
sandpiper,  at  my  approach,  darted  up  from 
the  dry  mud  a  couple  of  paces  from  him,  and 
flew  with  a  flash  of  its  little  wings  and  a  whistle 
over  the  surface  of  the  water,  showing  that  no 
one  had  moved  to  frighten  him  for  a  long  while. 
Harlov's  whole  appearance  was  so  extra- 
ordinary that  my  dog  stopped  short  directly 
it  saw  him,  lifted  its  tail,  and  growled.  He 
turned   his  head   a  very  little,  and   fixed  Ins 

92 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

wild-looking  eyes  on  me  and  my  dog.  He 
was  greatly  changed  by  his  beard,  though  it 
was  short,  but  thick  and  curly,  in  white  tufts, 
like  Astra<han  fur.  In  his  right  hand  lay  the 
end  of  a  rod,  while  the  other  end  hovered 
feebly  over  the  water.  I  felt  an  involuntary 
pang  at  my  heart.  I  plucked  up  my  spirits, 
however,  went  up  to  him,  and  wished  him  good 
morning.  He  slowly  blinked  as  though  just 
awake. 

'  What  are  you  doing,  Martin  Petrovitch,' 
I  began,  'catching  fish  here?' 

'Yes  .  .  .  fish,'  he  answered  huskily,  and 
pulled  up  the  rod,  on  which  there  fluttered  a 
piece  of  line,  a  fathom  length,  with  no  hook 
on  it. 

*  Your  tackle  is  broken  off,'  I  observed,  and 
noticed  the  same  moment  that  there  was  no 
sign  of  bait-tin  nor  worms  near  Martin  Petro- 
vitch.  .  .  .  And  what  sort  of  fishing  could  there 
be  in  September  ? 

'Broken  off?'   he  said,  and  he  passed  his 
hand  over  his  face.     '  But  it 's  all  the  same ! ' 
He  dropped  the  rod  in  again. 

*  Natalia  Nikolaevna's  son  ? '  he  asked  me, 
after  the  lapse  of  two  minutes,  during  which  I 
had  been  gazing  at  him  with  secret  bewilder- 
ment. Though  he  had  grown  terribly  thinner, 
still  he  seemed  a  giant.  But  what  rags  he  was 
dressed  in,  and  how  utterly  he  had  gone  to 
pieces  altogether ! 

93 


A  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

*  Yes,'  I  answered,  *  I  'm  the  son  of  Natalia 
Nikolaevna  B.* 

*  Is  she  well  ? ' 
*My  mother  is  quite  well.      She  was  very 

much  hurt  at  your  refusal/  I  added ;  '  she  did 
not  at  all  expect  you  would  not  wish  to  come 
and  see  her.* 

Martin  Petrovitch's  head  sank  on  his  breast. 
'Have  you  been  there?'  he  asked,  with  a 
motion  of  his  head. 

*  Where  ? ' 
'There,  at  the  house.      Haven't  you?     Go! 

What  is  there  for  you  to  do  here  ?     Go !     It's 
useless  talking  to  me.     I  don't  like  it.' 
He  was  silent  for  a  while. 

*  You  'd  like  to  be  always  idling  about  with 
a  gun !  In  my  young  days  I  used  to  be  in- 
clined the  same  way  too.  Only  my  father  was 
strict  and  made  me  respect  him  too.  Mind 
you,  very  different   from   fathers   now-a-days. 

*  My  father  flogged  me  with  a  horsewhip,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  it !  I  'd  to  give  up  idling 
about !    And  so  I  respected  him.  .  .  .  Oo  !  .  .  . 

X  Co   •      •      •      • 

Harlov  paused  again. 

'  Don't  you  stop  here,'  he  began  again.  *  You 
go  along  to  the  house.  Things  are  managed 
there  now — it's  first-rate.  Volodka ' . . .  Here  he 
faltered  for  a  second.  '  Our  Volodka 's  a  good 
hand  at  everything.  He 's  a  fine  fellow !  yes, 
indeed,  and  a  fine  scoundrel  too  I' 

94 


A  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say ;  Martin  Petro- 
vitch  spoke  very  tranquilly. 

'  And  you  go  and  see  my  daughters.  You  re- 
member, I  daresay,  I  had  daughters.  They're 
managers  too  .  .  .  clever  ones.  But  I'm  growing 
old,  my  lad  ;  I  'm  on  the  shelf.  Time  to  repose, 
you  know.  .  .  / 

*  Nice  sort  of  repose ! '  I  thought,  glancing 
round.  '  Martin  Petrovitch  ! '  I  uttered  aloud, 
'  you  really  must  come  and  see  us.' 

Harlov  looked  at  me.  '  Go  along,  my  lad, 
I  tell  you.' 

*  Don't  hurt  mamma's  feelings  ;  come  and 
see  us.' 

'  Go  away,  my  lad,  go  away,'  persisted  Harlov. 
*  What  do  you  want  to  talk  to  me  for  ? ' 

*  If  you  have  no  carriage,  mamma  will  send 
you  hers.' 

*  Go  along ! ' 

'  But,  really  and  truly,  Martin  Petrovitch  !  * 

Harlov  looked  down  again,  and  I  fancied 
that  his  cheeks,  dingy  as  though  covered  with 
earth,  faintly  flushed. 

'  Really,  do  come,'  I  went  on.  '  What 's  the 
use  of  your  sitting  here  ?  of  your  making  your- 
self miserable  ? ' 

'Making  myself  miserable?'  he  commented 
hesitatingly. 

*  Yes,  to  be  sure — making  yourself  miser- 
able ! '  I  repeated. 

Harlov   said   nothing,   and    seemed   lost  in 

95 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

musing.  Emboldened  by  his  silence,  I  deter- 
mined to  be  open,  to  act  straightforwardly, 
bluntly.  (Do  not  forget,  I  was  only  fifteen 
then.) 

*  Martin  Petrovitch  ! '  I  began,  seating  myself 
beside  him.  *  I  know  everything,  you  see,  posi- 
tively everything.  I  know  how  your  son-in- 
law  is  treating  you — doubtless  with  the  consent 
of  your  daughters.  And  now  you  are  in  such 
a  position  .  .  .  But  why  lose  heart  ? ' 

Harlov  still  remained  silent,  and  simply 
dropped  in  his  line ;  while  I — what  a  sensible 
fellow,  what  a  sage  I  felt ! 

'  Doubtless,'  I  began  again,  *  you  acted  im- 
prudently in  giving  up  everything  to  your 
daughters.  It  was  most  generous  on  your 
part,  and  I  am  not  going  to  blame  you.  In 
our  days  it  is  a  quality  only  too  rare !  But 
,  since  your  daughters  are  so  ungrateful,  you 
ought  to  show  a  contempt — yes,  a  contempt — 
for  them  .  .  .  and  not  fret ' 

'  Stop  ! '  muttered  Harlov  suddenly,  gnashing 
his  teeth,  and  his  Qy^s^  staring  at  the  pond, 
glittered  wrathfully  ...  *  Go  away ! ' 

.  *  But,  Martin  Petrovitch ' 

f--p.Go  away,  I  tell  you,  ...  or  I  '11  kill  you  !  * 

I  had  come  quite  close  to  him  ;  but  at  the 
last  words  I  instinctively  jumped  up.  *  What 
did  you  say,  Martin  Petrovitch?' 

*  I  '11  kill  you,  I  tell  you  ;  go  away  ! '  With 
a  wild   moan,  a  roar,  the  words  broke   from 

96 


A   LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

Harlov's  breast,  but  he  did  not  turn  his  head, 
and  still  stared  wrathfully  straight  in  front  of 
him.  *  I  '11  take  you  and  fling  you  and  your 
fool's  counsel  into  the  water.  You  shall  learn 
to  pester  the  old,  little  milksop  ! ' 

*  He 's  gone  mad  ! '  flashed  through  my  mind.    / 
I  looked  at  him  more  attentively,  and  was 

completely  petrified ;  Martin  Petrovitch  was 
weeping ! !  Tear  after  tear  rolled  from  his 
eyelashes  down  his  cheeks  .  .  .  while  his  face 
had  assumed  an  expression  utterly  savage.  .  .  . 

*  Go  away ! '  he  roared  once  more,  *  or  I  '11 
kill  you,  by  God  !  for  an  example  to  others  ! '     ' 

He  was  shaking  all  over  from  side  to  side, 
and  showing  his  teeth  like  a  wild  boar.  I 
snatched  up  my  gun  and  took  to  my  heels. 
My  dog  flew  after  me,  barking.  He,  too,  was 
frightened.  ^"7^ 

When  I  got  home,  I  naturally  did  not,  by  so 
much  as  a  word,  to  my  mother,  hint  at  what  I 
had  seen ;  but  coming  across  Souvenir,  I  told 
him — the  devil  knows  why — all  about  it.  That 
loathsome  person  was  so  delighted  at  my  story, 
shrieking  with  laughter,  and  even  dancing  with 
pleasure,  that  I  could  hardly  forbear  striking 
him. 

'Ah!  I  should  like,' he  kept  repeating  breath- 
less with  laughter, '  to  see  that  fiend,  the  Swede, 
Harlov,  crawling  into  the  mud  and  sitting  in 
t  ' 

-   \rt  •  m         • 

*  Go  over  to  the  pond  if  you  're  so  curious.* 

97  G 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

*  Yes ;  but  how  if  he  kills  me  ? ' 

I  felt  horribly  sick  at  Souvenir,  and  regretted 
my  ill-timed  confidence.  .  .  .  Zhitkov,  to  whom 
he  repeated  my  tale,  looked  at  the  matter 
somewhat  differently. 

*  We  shall  have  to  call  in  the  police,'  he  con- 
cluded, '  or,  may  be,  we  may  have  to  send  for  a 
battalion  of  military.' 

His  forebodings  with  regard  to  the  military 
battalion  did  not  come  true ;  but  something 
extraordinary  really  did  happen. 


98 


XXII 

In  the  middle  of  October,  three  weeks  after  , 
my  interview  with  Martin  Petrovitch,  I  was  j 
standing  at  the  window  of  my  own  room  in 
the  second  storey  of  our  house,  and  thinking 
of  nothing  at  all,  I  looked  disconsolately  into 
the  yard  and  the  road  that  lay  beyond  it. 
The  weather  had  been  disgusting  for  the  last 
five  days.  Shooting  was  not  even  to  be  thought 
of.  All  things  living  had  hidden  themselves ; 
even  the  sparrows  made  no  sound,  and  the 
rooks  had  long  ago  disappeared  from  sight.  The 
wind  howled  drearily,  then  whistled  spasmodic- 
ally. The  low-hanging  sky,  unbroken  by  one 
streak  of  light,  had  changed  from  an  unpleasant 
whitish  to  a  leaden  and  still  more  sinister  hue ; 
and  the  rain,  which  had  been  pouring  and 
pouring,  mercilessly  and  unceasingly,  had  sud- 
denly become  still  more  violent  and  more 
driving,  and  streamed  with  a  rushing  sound 
over  the  panes.  The  trees  had  been  stripped 
utterly  bare,  and  turned  a  sort  of  grey.  It 
seemed  they  had  nothing  left  to  plunder; 
yet  the  wind  would  not  be  denied,  but  set  to 

99 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

harassing  them  once  more.  Puddles,  clogged 
with  dead  leaves,  stood  everywhere.  Big 
bubbles,  continually  bursting  and  rising  up 
again,  leaped  and  glided  over  them.  Along 
the  roads,  the  mud  lay  thick  and  impassable. 
The  cold  pierced  its  way  indoors  through  one's 
clothes  to  the  very  bones.  An  involuntary 
shiver  passed  over  the  body,  and  how  sick  one 
felt  at  heart!  Sick,  precisely,  not  sad.  It 
seemed  there  would  never  again  in  the  world 
be  sunshine,  nor  brightness,  nor  colour,  but  this 
,  rain  and  mire  and  grey  damp,  and  raw  fog 
would  last  for  ever,  and  for  ever  would  the 
wind  whine  and  moan !  Well,  I  was  standing 
moodily  at  my  window,  and  I  remember  a 
sudden  darkness  came  on — a  bluish  darkness — 
though  the  clock  only  pointed  to  twelve.  Sud- 
jdenly  I  fancied  I  saw  a  bear  dash  across  our 
yard  from  the  gates  to  the  steps !  Not  on  all- 
fours,  certainly,  but  as  he  is  depicted  when  he 
gets  up  on  his  hind-paws.  I  could  not  believe 
my  eyes.  If  it  were  not  a  bear  I  had  seen, 
it  was,  any  way,  something  enormous,  black, 
shaggy.  ...  I  was  still  lost  in  wonder  as  to 
what  it  could  be,  when  suddenly  I  heard  below  a 
furious  knocking.  It  seemed  something  utterly 
unlooked  for,  something  terrible  was  stumbling 
headlong  into  our  house.  Then  began  a  com- 
motion, a  hurrying  to  and  fro.  .  .  . 

I  quickly  went  down  the  stairs,  ran  into  the 
dining-room 

lOO 


1' 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 


At  the  drawing-room  door  facing  me 
stood  my  mother,  as  though  rooted  to  the 
spot.  Behind  her,  peered  several  scared 
female  faces.  The  butler,  two  footmen,  and  a 
page,  with  his  mouth  wide  open  with  astonish- 
ment, were  packed  together  in  the  doorway 
of  the  hall.  In  the  middle  of  the  dining- 
room,  covered  with  mire,  dishevelled,  tattered, 
and  soaking  wet — so  wet  that  steam  rose  all 
round  and  water  was  running  in  little  streams 
{ over  the  floor— knelt,  shaking  ponderously, 
as  it  were,  at  the  last  gasp  .  ,  .  the  very 
monster  I  had  seen  dashing  across  the  yard ! 
And  who  was- this  monster?  Harlovl  I  came 
up  on  one  side,  and  saw,  not  his  face,  but  his 
head,  which  he  was  clutching,  with  both  hands 
in  the  hair  that  blinded  him  with  filth.  He 
was  breathing  heavily,  brokenly ;  something 
positively  rattled  in  his  throat — and  in  all  the 
bespattered  dark  mass,  the  only  thing  that  could 
be  clearly  distinguished  was  the  tiny  whites 
of  the  eyes,  straying  wildly  about.  He  was 
awful !  The  dignitary  came  into  my  mind 
whom  he  had  once  crushed  for  comparing  him 
to  a  mastodon.  Truly,  so  might  have  looked 
some  antediluvian  creature  that  had  just  escaped 
another  more  powerful  monster,  attacking  it  in 
the  eternal  slime  of  the  primeval  swamps.       ^y 

*  Martin  Petrovitch  ! '  my  mother  cried  at  last, 
and  she  clasped  her  hands.  *  Is  that  you  ? 
Good  God  !     Merciful  heavens  ! ' 

lOI 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

*  I  .  .  .  I  .  .  . '  we  heard  a  broken  voice, 
which  seemed  with  effort  and  painfully  to  dwell 
on  each  sound.     '  Alas  !     It  is  I ! ' 

*But  what  has  happened  to  you?  Mercy 
upon  us ! ' 

*  Natalia  Nikolaev  ...  na  ...  I  have  .  .  . 
run  straight  ...  to  you  .  .  .  from  home  .  .  . 
on  foot.*  .  .  . 

*  Through  such  mud !  But  you  don't  look 
like  a  man.  Get  up ;  sit  down,  anyway.  .  .  . 
And  you,'  she  turned  to  the  maid-servants, '  run 
quick  for  cloths.  And  haven't  you  some  dry 
clothes  ? '  she  asked  the  butler. 

The  butler  gesticulated  as  though  to  say, 
Is  it  likely  for  such  a  size?  .  .  .  *But  we 
could  get  a  coverlet,'  he  replied,  *or,  there's 
a  new  horse-rug.' 

*But  get  up,  get  up,  Martin  Petrovitch,  sit 
down,'  repeated  my  mother. 
-  *  They've  turned  me  out,  madam,'  Harlov 
moaned  suddenly,  and  he  flung  his  head 
back  and  stretched  his  hands  out  before  him. 
'They've  turned  me  out,  Natalia  Nikolaevna! 
My  own  daughters,  out  of  my  own  home.'  .  .  . 

My  mother  sighed  and  groaned. 

'  What  are  you  saying  ?  Turned  you  out ! 
What  wickedness  !  what  wickedness  ! '  (She 
crossed  herself)  'But  do  get  up,  Martin 
Petrovitch,  I  beg  you  ! ' 

Two  maid-servants  came  in  with  cloths  and 
stood  still  before  Harlov.     It  was  clear  they 

1 02 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

did  not  know  how  to  attack  this  mountain  of 
filth.  *They  have  turned  me  out,  madam,  they 
have  turned  me  out !  *  Harlov  kept  repeating 
meanwhile.  The  butler  returned  with  a  large 
woollen  coverlet,  and  he,  too,  stood  still  in 
perplexity.  Souvenir's  little  head  was  thrust 
in  at  a  door  and  vanished  again. 

'  Martin  Petrovitch  !  get  up  !  Sit  down ! 
and  tell  me  everything  properly,'  my  mother 
commanded  in  a  tone  of  determination. 

Harlov  rose.  .  .  .  The  butler  tried  to  assist 
him  but  only  dirtied  his  hand,  and,  shaking  his 
fingers,  retreated  to  the  door.  Staggering  and 
faltering,  Harlov  got  to  a  chair  and  sat  down. 
The  maids  again  approached  him  with  their 
cloths,  but  he  waved  them  off  with  his  hand, 
and  refused  the  coverlet.  My  mother  did  not 
herself,  indeed,  insist ;  to  dry  Harlov  was 
obviously  out  of  the  question  ;  they  contented 
themselves  with  hastily  wiping  up  his  traces 
on  the  floor. 


103 


XXIII 

*  How  have  they  turned  you  out  ?  *  my  mother 
asked,  as  soon  as  he  had  a  little  time  to  recover 
himself. 

*  Madam  !  Natalia  Nikolaevna ! '  he  began, 
in  a  strained  voice, — and  again  I  was  struck  by 
the  uneasy  straying  of  his  eyes ;  *  I  will  tell 
you  the  truth ;  I  am  myself  most  of  all  to 
blame/ 

*  Ay,  to  be  sure ;  you  would  not  listen  to 
me  at  the  time/  assented  my  mother,  sinking 
into  an  arm-chair  and  slightly  moving  a  scented 
handkerchief  before  her  nose  ;  very  strong  was 
the  smell  that  came  from  Harlov  .  .  .  the 
odour  in  a  forest  bog  is  not  so  strong. 

*  Alas !  that 's  not  where  I  erred,  madam, 
but  through  pride.  Pride  has  been  my  ruin,  as 
it  ruined  the  Tsar  Navuhodonosor.  I  fancied 
God  had  given  me  my  full  share  of  sense,  and 
if  I  resolved  on  anything,  it  followed  it  was 
right ;  so  .  .  .  and  then  the  fear  of  death  came 
...  I  was  utterly  confounded  !  "I  '11  show," 
said  I,  "  to  the  last,  my  power  and  my  strength  ! 

I  '11  bestow  all  on  them, — and  they  must  feel 

104 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

it  all  their  lives.  .  .  ." '  (Harlov  suddenly  was 
shaking  all  over.  .  .  .)  *Like  a  mangy  dog 
they  have  driven  me  out  of  the  house !  This 
is  their  gratitude  ! ' 

*In   what   way /   my    mother   was    be- 
ginning. .  .  . 

*They  took  my  page,  Maximka,  from  me,' 
Harlov  interrupted  her  (his  eyes  were  still 
wandering,  he  held  both  hands — the  fingers 
interlaced — under  his  chin),  *  my  carriage  they 
took  away,  my  monthly  allowance  they  cut 
down,  did  not  pay  me  the  sum  specified,  cut 
me  short  all  round,  in  fact ;  still  I  said  nothing, 
bore  it  all !  And  I  bore  it  by  reason  .  .  .  alas  ! 
of  my  pride  again.  That  my  cruel  enemies 
might  not  say,  "  See,  the  old  fool 's  sorry  for  it 
now  "  ;  and  you  too,  do  you  remember,  madam, 
had  warned  me;  "mind  you,  it's  all  to  no 
purpose,"  you  said  !  and  so  I  bore  it.  .  .  .  Only, 
to-day  I  came  into  my  room,  and  it  was  occupied 
already,  and  my  bed  they'd  thrown  out  into 
the  lumber-room  !  "  You  can  sleep  there  ;  we  i 
put  up  with  you  there  even  only  out  of  charity  ; 
we  've  need  of  your  room  for  the  household." 
And  this  was  said  to  me  by  whom  ?  Volodka 
Sletkin  !  the  vile  hound,  the  base  cur  ! ' 

Harlov's  voice  broke. 

*  But  your  daughters  ?     What  did  they  do  ? ' 
asked  my  mother. 

'  But  I  bore  it  all,'  Harlov  went  on  again ; 
*  bitterness,  bitterness  was  in  my  heart,  let  me 

105 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

tell  you,  and  shame.  ...  I  could  not  bear  to 
look  upon  the  light  of  day !  That  was  why  I 
was  unwilling  to  come  and  see  you,  ma'am, 
from  this  same  feeling,  from  shame  for  my 
disgrace  I  I  have  tried  everything,  my  good 
friend  ;  kindness,  affection,  and  threats,  and  I 
reasoned  with  them,  and  more  besides !  I 
bowed  down  before  them  .  .  .  like  this.'  (Har- 
lov  showed  how  he  had  bowed  down.)  '  And 
all  in  vain.  And  all  of  it  I  bore !  At  the 
beginning,  at  first,  I  'd  very  different  thoughts  ; 
I  '11  up,  I  thought,  and  kill  them.  I  '11  crush 
them  all,  so  that  not  a  trace  remains  of  them ! 
...  I'll  let  them  know!  Well,  but  after,  I 
submitted  !  It's  a  cross,  I  thought,  laid  upon 
me ;  it 's  to  bid  me  make  ready  for  death. 
And  all  at  once,  to-day,  driven  out,  like  a  cur  ! 
And  by  whom?  Volodka!  And  you  asked 
about  my  daughters  ;  they  've  no  will  of  their 
own  at  all.  They  're  Volodka's  slaves !  Yes ! ' 
My  mother  wondered.  *  In  Anna's  case  I 
can  understand  that ;  she 's  a  wife.  .  .  .  But 
how  comes  it  your  second  .  .  .* 

*  Evlampia  ?  She 's  worse  than  Anna !  She  *s 
altogether  given  herself  up  into  Volodka's 
hands.  That's  the  reason  she  refused  your 
f  soldier,  too.  At  his,  at  Volodka's  bidding. 
Anna,  to  be  sure,  ought  to  resent  it,  and  she 
can't  bear  her  sister,  but  she  submits !  He 's 
bewitched  them,  the  cursed  scoundrel !  Though 
she,  Anna,  I  daresay,  is  pleased  to  think  that 

1 06 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Eviampia,  who  was  always  so  proud, — and 
now  see  what  she 's  come  to !  .  .  .  O  .  .  .  alas 
.  .  .  alas !     God,  my  God  ! ' 

My  mother  looked  uneasily  towards  me.  I 
moved  a  little  away  as  a  precautionary  measure, 
for  fear  I  should  be  sent  away  altogether.  .  .  , 

'  I  am  very  sorry  indeed,  Martin  Petrovitch,* 
she  began,  'that  my  former  protegd  has  caused 
you  so  much  sorrow,  and  has  turned  out  so 
badly.  But  I,  too,  was  mistaken  in  him.  .  .  . 
Who  could  have  expected  this  of  him?' 

*  Madam,'  Harlov  moaned  out,  and  he  struck 
himself  a  blow  on  the  chest,  *  I  cannot  bear 
the  ingratitude  of  my  daughters !  I  cannot, 
madam  !  You  know  I  gave  them  everything, 
everything !  And  besides,  my  conscience  has 
been  tormenting  me.  Many  things  .  .  .  alas ! 
many  things  I  have  thought  over,  sitting  by 
the  pond,  fishing.  "If  you'd  only  done  good 
to  any  one  in  your  life  ! "  was  what  I  pondered 
upon,  "succoured  the  poor,  set  the  peasants 
free,  or  something,  to  atone  for  having  wrung 
their  lives  out  of  them.  You  must  answer  fori 
them  before  God !  Now  their  tears  are  re-I 
venged."  And  what  sort  of  life  have  they  now?' 
It  was  a  deep  pit  even  in  my  time — why 
disguise  my  sins  ? — but  now  there 's  no  seeing 
the  bottom !  All  these  sins  I  have  taken  upon 
my  soul ;  I  have  sacrificed  my  conscience  for 
my  children,  and  for  this  I  'm  laughed  to  scorn  ! 
Kicked  out  of  the  house,  like  a  cur  ! ' 

107  y 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

*  Don't  think  about  that,  Martin  Petrovitch/ 
observed  my  mother. 

*And  when  he  told  me,  your  Volodka,' 
Harlov  went  on  with  fresh  force,  *  when  he  told 
me  I  was  not  to  live  in  my  room  any  more, — 
I  laid  every  plank  in  that  room  with  my  own 
hands, — when  he  said  that  to  me, — God  only 
knows  what  passed  within  me !  It  was  all 
confusion  in  my  head,  and  like  a  knife  in 
my  heart.  .  .  .  Either  to  cut  his  throat  or  get 
away  out  of  the  house !  .  .  .  So,  I  have  run  to 
you,  my  benefactress,  Natalia  Nikolaevna  .  .  . 
where  had  I  to  lay  my  head  ?  And  then  the 
rain,  the  filth  ...  I  fell  down  twenty  times, 
maybe !     And  now  ...  in  such  unseemly  .  . .' 

Harlov  scanned  himself  and  moved  restlessly 
in  his  chair,  as  though  intending  to  get  up. 

*  Say  no  more,  Martin  Petrovitch,'  my  mother 
interposed  hurriedly;  'what  does  that  signify? 
That  you've  made  the  floor  dirty?  That's  no 
great  matter !  Come,  I  want  to  make  you  a 
proposition.  Listen !  They  shall  take  you 
now  to  a  special  room,  and  make  you  up  a 
clean  bed, — you  undress,  wash,  and  lie  down 
and  sleep  a  little.  .  .  .' 

*  Natalia  Nikolaevna!  There's  no  sleeping 
for  me!'  Harlov  responded  drearily.  'It's  as 
though  there  were  hammers  beating  in  my 
brain  !  Me  !  like  some  good  -  for  -  nothing 
beast!  .  .  .' 

'Lie  down  and  sleep,'  my  mother  repeated 

io8 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

insistently.  *And  then  we'll  give  you  some 
tea, — yes,  and  we'll  have  a  talk.  Don't  lose 
heart,  old  friend!  If  they've  driven  you  out 
of  your  house,  in  my  house  you  will  always 
find  a  home.  ...  I  have  not  forgotten,  you 
know,  that  you  saved  my  life.' 

*  Benefactress ! '  moaned  Harlov,  and  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  hand.  *  You  must 
save  me  now ! ' 

This  appeal  touched  my  mother  almost  to 
tears.  '  I  am  ready  and  eager  to  help  you, 
Martin  Petrovitch,  in  everything  I  am  able. 
But  you  must  promise  me  that  you  will  listen 
to  me  in  future  and  dismiss  every  evil  thought 
from  you.' 

Harlov  took  his  hands  from  his  face.  *  If 
need  be,'  he  said,  *  I  can  forgive  them,  even  ! ' 

My  mother  nodded  her  head  approvingly. 
*  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  in  such  a  truly 
Christian  frame  of  mind,  Martin  Petrovitch ; 
but  we  will  talk  of  that  later.  Meanwhile,  you 
put  yourself  to  rights,  and,  most  of  all,  sleep. 
Take  Martin  Petrovitch  to  what  was  the 
master's  room,  the  green  room,'  said  my 
mother,  addressing  the  butler,  'and  whatever 
he  asks  for,  let  him  have  it  on  the  spot !  Give 
orders  for  his  clothes  to  be  dried  and  washed, 
and  ask  the  housekeeper  for  what  linen  is 
needed.     Do  you  hear?' 

*  Yes,  madam,'  responded  the  butler. 

*  And  as  soon  as  he 's  asleep,  tell  the  tailor 

109 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

to  take  his  measure ;  and  his  beard  will  have 
to  be  shaved.     Not  at  once,  but  after.' 

*  Yes,  madam,'  repeated  the  butler.  '  Martin 
Petrovitch,  kindly  come.'  Harlov  got  up, 
looked  at  my  mother,  was  about  to  go  up  to 
her,  but  stopped,  swinging  a  bow  from  the 
waist,  crossed  himself  three  times  to  the  image, 
and  followed  the  steward.  Behind  him,  I,  too, 
slipped  out  of  the  room. 


no 


XXIV 

The  butler  conducted  Harlov  to  the  green 
room,  and  at  once  ran  off  for  the  wardroom 
maid,  as  it  turned  out  there  were  no  sheets  on 
the  bed.  ^Souvenir,  who  met  us  in  the  passage, 
and  popped  into  the  green  room  with  us, 
promptly  proceeded  to  dance,  grinning  and 
chuckling,  round  Harlov,  who  stood,  his  arms 
held  a  little  away  from  him,  and  his  legs  apart, 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  seeming  lost  in 
thought.  The  water  was  still  dripping  from 
him. 

*  The  Swede !  The  Swede,  Harlus  ! '  piped 
Souvenir,  doubling  up  and  holding  his  sides. 
*  Mighty  founder  of  the  illustrious  race  of  Har- 
lovs,  look  down  on  thy  descendant!  What 
does  he  look  like?  Dost  thou  recognise  him? 
Ha,  ha,  ha!  Your  excellency,  your  hand,  I 
beg ;  why,  have  you  got  on  black  gloves  ?  * 

I  tried  to  restrain  Souvenir,  to  put  him  to 
shame  .  .  .  but  it  was  too  late  for  that  now. 

*  He  called  me  parasite,  toady !  "  You  've  no 
roof,"  said  he,  "  to  call  your  own."  But  now,  no 
doubt  about  it,  he's  become  as  dependent  as 

III 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

poor  little  me.  Martin  Petrovitch  and  Souvenir, 
the  poor  toady,  are  equal  now.  He  '11  have  to 
live  on  charity  too.  They  '11  toss  him  the  stale 
and  dirty  crust,  that  the  dog  has  sniffed  at  and 
refused.  .  .  .  And  they  '11  tell  him  to  eat  it,  too. 
Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ' 

Harlov  still  stood  motionless,  his  head  drawn 
in,  his  legs  and  arms  held  a  little  apart. 

'  Martin  Harlov,  a  nobleman  born  ! '  Souvenir 
went  on  shrieking.  '  What  airs  he  used  to  give 
himself.  Just  look  at  me  !  Don't  come  near,  or 
I  '11  knock  you  down  !  .  .  .  And  when  he  was 
so  clever  as  to  give  away  and  divide  his  pro- 
perty, didn't  he  crow !  "  Gratitude  !  .  .  ."  he 
cackled,  "  gratitude  !  "  But  why  were  you  so 
mean  to  me?  Why  didn't  you  make  me  a 
present  ?  May  be,  I  should  have  felt  it  more. 
And  you  see  I  was  right  when  I  said  they  'd 
strip  you  bare,  and  .  .  .' 

*  Souvenir  ! '  I  screamed  ;  but  Souvenir  was 
in  nowise  daunted.  Harlov  still  did  not  stir. 
It  seemed  as  though  he  were  only  now  begin- 
ning to  be  aware  how  soaking  wet  everything 
was  that  he  had  on,  and  was  waiting  to  be 
helped  off  with  his  clothes.  But  the  butler  had 
not  come  back. 

*  And  a  military  man  too  ! '  Souvenir  began 
again.  *  In  the  year  twelve,  he  saved  his  country ; 
he  showed  proofs  of  his  valour.  I  see  how  it 
is.  Stripping  the  frozen  marauders  of  their 
breeches  is  work  he 's  quite  equal  to,  but  when 

112 


A  LEAR  OF   THE   STEPPES 

the  hussies  stamp  their  feet  at  him  he's  fright- 
ened out  of  his  skin.' 

'  Souvenir !  I  screamed  a  second  time. 

Harlov  looked  askance  at  Souvenir.  Till 
:hat  instant  he  seemed  not  to  have  noticed  his 
presence,  and  only  my  exclamation  aroused  his 
ittention. 

'  Look  out,  brother,'  he  growled  huskily, 
don't  dance  yourself  into  trouble.' 

Souvenir  fairly  rolled  about  with  laughter. 
Ah,  how  you  frighten  me,  most  honoured 
jrother.  You're  a  formidable  person,  to  be 
;ure.  You  must  comb  your  hair,  at  any  rate, 
)r,  God  forbid,  it  '11  get  dry,  and  you  '11  never 
vash  it  clean  again  ;  you  '11  have  to  mow  it  with 
L  sickle.'  Souvenir  all  of  a  sudden  got  into  a 
ury.  'And  you  give  yourself  airs  still.  A 
)oor  outcast,  and  he  gives  himself  airs.  Where's 
>our  home  now  ?  you  'd  better  tell  me  that,  you 
v^ere  always  boasting  of  it.  "  I  have  a  home  of 
ny  own,"  he  used  to  say,  but  you  're  homeless. 
My  ancestral  roof,"  he  would  say.'  Souvenir 
)0unced  on  this  phrase  as  an  inspiration. 

*  Mr.  Bitchkov,'  I  protested.  '  What  are  you 
.bout?  you  forget  yourself.' 

But  he  still  persisted  in  chattering,  and  still 
lanced  and  pranced  up  and  down  quite  close 
o  Harlov.  And  still  the  butler  and  the  ward- 
oom  maid  did  not  come. 

I  felt  alarmed.  I  began  to  notice  that  Har- 
bv,  who  had,  during  his  conversation  with  my 

113  H 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

mother,  gradually  grown  quieter,  and  even 
towards  the  end  apparently  resigned  himself 
to  his  fate,  was  beginning  to  get  worked 
up  again.  He  breathed  more  hurriedly,  it 
seemed  as  though  his  face  were  suddenly 
swollen  under  his  ears,  his  fingers  twitched,  his 
eyes  again  began  moving  restlessly  in  the  dark  \ 
mask  of  his  grim  face.  .  .  . 

*  Souvenir,  Souvenir  I  *  I  cried.  *  Stop  it,  I  '11 
tell  mamma.' 

But  Souvenir  seemed  possessed  by  frenzy. 
*Yes,  yes,  most  honoured  brother,*  he  began 
again,  *  here  we  find  ourselves,  you  and  I,  in  the 
most  delicate  position.  While  your  daughters, 
with  your  son-in-law,  Vladimir  Vassilievitch, 
are  having  a  fine  laugh  at  you  under  your  roof. 
And  you  should  at  least  curse  them,  as  you 
promised.  Even  that  you  're  not  equal  to.  To 
be  sure,  how  could  you  hold  your  own  with 
Vladimir  Vassilievitch?  Why,  you  used  to 
call  him  Volodka,  too.  You  call  him  Volodka. 
He  is  Vladimir  Vassilievitch,  Mr.  Sletkin,  a 
landowner,  a  gentleman,  while — what  are  you, 
pray  ? ' 

A  furious  roar  drowned  Souvenir's  words. . . . 
Harlov  was  aroused.  His  fists  were  clenched 
and  lifted,  his  face  was  purple,  there  was  foam 
on  his  drawn  lips,  he  was  shaking  with  rage. 
'  Roof,  you  say  ! '  he  thundered  in  his  iron  voice, 
f  curse,  you  say.  .  .  .  No !  I  will  not  curse  them. 
I  .  .  They  don't  care  for  that  .  .  .  But  the  roof 

114 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

...  I  will  tear  the  roof  off  them,  and  they  shall 
have  no  roof  over  their  heads,  like  me.  They 
shall  learn  to  know  Martin  Harlov.  My 
strength  is  not  all  gone  yet ;  they  shall  learn  to 
laugh  at  me !  .  .  ,  They  shall  have  no  roof  over 
their  heads ! ' 

I  was  stupefied  ;  never  in  my  life  had  I  wit- 
nessed such  boundless  anger.  Not  a  man — a 
wild  beast — paced  to  and  fro  before  me.  I  was 
stupefied  ...  as  for  Souvenir,  he  had  hidden 
under  the  table  in  his  fright. 

'  They  shall  not ! '  Harlov  shouted  for  the 
last  time,  and  almost  knocking  over  the  butler 
and  the  wardroom  maid,  he  rushed  away  out  of 
the  house.  .  .  .  He  dashed  headlong  across  the 
yard,  and  vanished  through  the  gates. 


"5 


XXV 

My  mother  was  terribly  angry  when  the 
butler  came  with  an  abashed  countenance  to 
report  Martin  Petrovitch's  sudden  and  unex- 
pected retreat.  He  did  not  dare  to  conceal  the 
cause  of  this  retreat ;  I  was  obliged  to  confirm 
his  story.  '  Then  it  was  all  your  doing  ! '  my 
mother  cried,  at  the  sight  of  Souvenir,  who  had 
run  in  like  a  hare,  and  was  even  approaching 
to  kiss  her  hand  :  '  Your  vile  tongue  is  to  blame 
for  it  all ! '  *  Excuse  me,  d'rectly,  d'rectly  .  .  .* 
faltered  Souvenir,  stuttering  and  drawing  back 
his  elbows  behind  him.  *  D'rectly,  .  .  .  d'rectly 
.  .  .  I  know  your  "d'rectly,"'  my  mother 
repeated  reprovingly,  and  she  sent  him  out  of 
the  room.  Then  she  rang  the  bell,  sent  for 
Kvitsinsky,  and  gave  him  orders  to  set  off  on 
the  spot  to  Eskovo,  with  a  carriage,  to  find 
Martin  Petrovitch  at  all  costs,  and  to  bring  him 
back.  'Do  not  let  me  see  you  without  him,' 
she  concluded.  The  gloomy  Pole  bowed  his 
head  without  a  word,  and  went  away. 

I  went  back  to  my  own  room,  sat  down  again 
at  the  window,  and  I  pondered  a  long  while,  I 

ii6 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

remember,  on  what  had  taken  place  before  my 
eyes.     I  was  puzzled  ;  I  could  not  understand  ; 
how  it  was  that  Harlov,  who  had  endured  the  j 
insults  of  his  own  family  almost  without  a  mur- 
mur, had  lost  all  self-control,  and  been  unable ' 
to  put  up  with  the  jeers  and  pin-pricks  of  such 
an   abject   creature   as  Souvenir.      I    did   not 
understand   in   those    days   what   insufferable 
bitterness  there  may  sometimes  be  in  a  foolish 
taunt,  even  when  it  comes  from  lips  one  scorns. 
.  .  .  The   hated  name  of  Sletkin,  uttered  by 
Souvenir,  had   been   like  a  spark  thrown  into 
powder.     The  sore  spot  could  not  endure  this 
final  prick. 

About  an  hour  passed  by.  Our  coach  drove 
into  the  yard  ;  but  our  steward  sat  in  it  alone. 
And  my  mother  had  said  to  him — 'don't  let 
me  see  you  without  him.'  Kvitsinsky  jumped 
hurriedly  out  of  the  carriage,  and  ran  up  the 
steps.  His  face  had  a  perturbed  look — some- 
thing very  unusual  with  him.  I  promptly 
rushed  downstairs,  and  followed  at  his  heels 
into  the  drawing-room.  'Well?  have  you 
brought  him  ? '  asked  my  mother. 

*  I  have  not  brought  him,'  answered  Kvit- 
sinsky— '  and  I  could  not  bring  him.' 

*  How 's  that  ?     Have  you  seen  him  ?  * 
'Yes.' 

*  What  has  happened  to  him  ?     A  fit  ? ' 

*  No  ;  nothing  has  happened.' 

*  How  is  it  you  didn't  bring  him  ?' 

117 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

'  He 's  pulling  his  house  to  pieces/ 
'  What  ? ' 

*  He 's  standing  on  the  roof  of  the  new  build- 
ing, and  pulling  it  to  pieces.  Forty  boards  or 
more,  I  should  guess,  must  have  come  down  by 
now,  and  some  five  of  the  rafters  too.'  ('  They 
shall  not  have  a  roof  over  their  heads.'  Harlov's 
words  came  back  to  me.) 

My  mother  stared  at  Kvitsinsky.  *  Alone 
...  he 's  standing  on  the  roof,  and  pulling  the 
roof  down  ? ' 

'Exactly  so.  He  is  walking  about  on  the 
flooring  of  the  garret  in  the  roof,  and  smashing 
right  and  left  of  him.  His  strength,  you  are 
aware,  madam,  is  superhuman.  And  the  roof 
too,  one  must  say,  is  a  poor  affair ;  half- 
inch  deal  battens,  laid  wide  apart,  one  inch 
nails.' 

My  mother  looked  at  me,  as  though  wishing 
to  make  sure  whether  she  had  heard  aright. 
*  Half-inches  wide  apart,'  she  repeated,  obvi- 
ously not  understanding  the  meaning  of  one 
word.     *  Well,  what  then  ? '  she  said  at  last. 

*  I  have  come  for  instructions.  There 's  no 
doing  anything  without  men  to  help.  The 
peasants  there  are  all  limp  with  fright.* 

*  And  his  daughters — what  of  them  ?  ' 

*  His  daughters  are  doing  nothing.  They're 
running  to  and  fro,  shouting  ,  .  ,  this  and 
that  ...  all  to  no  purpose.' 

'  And  is  Sletkin  there  ?  * 

ii8 


A  LEAR  OP"  THE  STEPPES 

'  He  's  there  too.  He 's  making  more  outcry 
than  all  of  them — but  he  can't  do  anything.' 

*And  Martin  Petrovitch  is  standing  on  the 
roof? ' 

*  On  the  roof  .  .  .  that  is,  in  the  garret — and 
pulling  the  roof  to  pieces.' 

'Yes,  yes,'  said  my  mother,  *  half-inches 
wide  apart.* 

The  position  was  obviously  a  serious  one. 
What  steps  were  to  be  taken?  Send  to  the 
town  for  the  police  captain  ?  Get  together  the 
peasants?  My  mother  was  quite  at  her  wits' 
end.  Zhitkov,  who  had  come  in  to  dinner,  was 
nonplussed  too.  It  is  true,  he  made  another 
reference  to  a  battalion  of  military  ;  he  offered 
no  advice,  however,  but  confined  himself  to 
looking  submissive  and  devoted.  Kvitsinsky, 
seeing  he  would  not  get  at  any  instructions, 
suggested  to  my  mother — with  the  contemptu- 
ous respectfulness  peculiar  to  him — that  if  she 
would  authorise  him  to  take  a  few  of  the 
stable-boys,  gardeners,  and  other  house-serfs, 
he  would  make  an  effort  .  .  . 

*Yes,  yes,'  my  mother  cut  him  short,  *do 
make  an  effort,  dear  Vikenty  Osipitch !  Only 
make  haste,  please,  and  I  will  take  all  responsi- 
bility on  myself!* 

Kvitsinsky  smiled  coldly.  'One  thing  let 
me  make  clear,  madam,  beforehand  ;  it 's  im- 
possible to  reckon  on  any  result,  seeing  that 
Mr.   Harlov's  strength  is  so  great,  and  he  is 

119 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

SO  desperate  too  ;  he  feels  himself  to  have  been 
very  cruelly  wronged  ! ' 

*  Yes,  yes,'  my  mother  assented  ;  *and  it's  all 
tiiat  vile  Souvenir's  fault !  Never  will  I  for- 
give him  for  it.  Go  and  take  the  servants  and 
set  off,  Vikenty  Osipitch  ! ' 

*  You  'd  better  take  plenty  of  cord,  Mr. 
Steward,  and  some  fire-escape  tackle,'  Zhitkov 
brought  out  in  his  bass — '  and  if  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  a  net,  it  would  be  as  well  to  take 
that  along  too.  We  once  had  in  our  regi- 
ment .  .  .' 

'  Kindly  refrain  from  instructing  me,  sir,' 
Kvitsinsky  cut  him  short,  with  an  air  of  vexa- 
tion ;  *  I  know  what  is  needed  without  your 
aid.' 

Zhitkov  was  offended,  and  protested  that  as 
he  imagined  he,  too,  was  called  upon  .  .  . 

*  No,  no!'  interposed  my  mother;  'you'd 
better  stop  where  you  are  .  .  .  Let  Vikenty 
Osipitch  act  alone  .  .  .  Make  haste,  Vikenty 
Osipitch ! ' 

Zhitkov  was  still  more  offended,  while  Kvit- 
sinsky bowed  and  went  out. 

I  rushed  off  to  the  stable,  hurriedly  saddled 
my  horse  myself,  and  set  off  at  a  gallop  along 
the  road  to  Eskovo. 


120 


XXVI 

The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  wind  was 
blowing  with  redoubled  force — straight  into 
my  face.  Half-way  there,  the  saddle  almost 
slipped  round  under  me ;  the  girth  had  got 
loose ;  I  got  off  and  tried  to  tighten  the  straps 
with  my  teeth.  .  .  .  All  at  once  I  heard  some- 
one calling  me  by  my  name  .  .  .  Souvenir  was 
running  towards  me  across  the  green  fields. 
*  What ! '  he  shouted  to  me  from  some  way  off,  I 
*was  your  curiosity  too  much  for  you?  But 
it's  no  use  ...  I  went  over  there,  straight,  at 
Harlov's  heels  .  .  .  Such  a  state  of  things  you 
never  saw  in  your  life  ! ' 

'You  want  to  enjoy  what  you  have  done,'  I 
said  indignantly,  and,  jumping  on  my  horse, 
I  set  off  again  at  a  gallop.  But  the  indefati- 
gable Souvenir  did  not  give  me  up,  and 
chuckled  and  grinned,  even  as  he  ran.  At  last, 
Eskovo  was  reached — there  was  the  dam,  and 
there  the  long  hedge  and  willow-tree  of  the 
homestead  ...  I  rode  up  to  the  gate,  dis- 
mounted, tied  up  my  horse,  and  stood  still 
in  amazement. 

121 


A 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Of  one  third  of  the  roof  of  the  newer  house, 
'of  the  front  part,  nothing  was  left  but  the 
skeleton  ;  boards  and  litter  lay  in  disorderly- 
heaps  on  the  ground  on  both  sides  of  the 
building.  Even  supposing  the  roof  to  be,  as 
Kvitsinsky  had  said,  a  poor  affair,  even  so,  it 
was  something  incredible!  On  the  floor  of 
the  garret,  in  a  whirl  of  dust  and  rubbish,  a 
blackish  grey  mass  was  moving  to  and  fro 
with  rapid  ungainly  action,  at  one  moment 
shaking  the  remaining  chimney,  built  of  brick, 
(the  other  had  fallen  already)  then  tearing  up 
the  boarding  and  flinging  it  down  below,  then 
clutching  at  the  very  rafters.  It  was  Harlov. 
He  struck  me  as  being  exactly  like  a  bear  at 
this  moment  too;  the  head,  and  back,  and 
shoulders  were  a  bear's,  and  he  put  his  feet 
down  wide  apart  without  bending  the  insteps 
— also  like  a  bear.  The  bitter  wind  was 
blowing  upon  him  from  every  side,  lifting  his 
matted  locks.  It  was  horrible  to  see,  here  and 
there,  red  patches  of  bare  flesh  through  the 
rents  in  his  tattered  clothes ;  it  was  horrible 
to  hear  his  wild  husky  muttering.  There  were 
a  lot  of  people  in  the  yard  ;  peasant-women, 
boys,  and  servant-girls  stood  close  along  the 
hedge.  A  few  peasants  huddled  together  in 
a  separate  group,  a  little  way  off.  The  old 
village  priest,  whom  I  knew,  was  standing, 
bareheaded,  on  the  steps  of  the  other  house, 
and  holding  a  brazen  cross  in  both  hands,  from 

122 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

time  to  time,  silently  and  hopelessly,  raised  it, 
and,  as  it  were,  showed  it  to  Harlov.  Beside 
the  priest,  stood  Evlampia  with  her  back 
against  the  wall,  gazing  fixedly  at  her  father. 
Anna,  at  one  moment,  pushed  her  head  out  of 
the  little  window,  then  vanished,  then  hurried 
into  the  yard,  then  went  back  into  the  house. 
Sletkin — pale  all  over,  livid — in  an  old  dressing- 
gown  and  smoking-cap,  with  a  single-barrelled 
rifle  in  his  hands,  kept  running  to  and  fro 
with  little  steps.  He  had  completely  gone 
Jewish^  as  it  is  called.  He  was  gasping,  threat- 
ening, shaking,  pointing  the  gun  at  Harlov, 
then  letting  it  drop  back  on  his  shoulder — 
pointing  it  again,  shrieking,  weeping.  .  .  . 
On  seeing  Souvenir  and  me  he  simply  flew 
to  us.  V 

*  Look,  look,  what  is  going  on  here ! '  he 
wailed — 'look!  He's  gone  out  of  his  mind, 
he's  raving  mad  .  .  .  and  see  what  he's  doing! 
I  've  sent  for  the  police  already — but  no  one 
comes!  No  one  comes!  If  I  do  fire  at  him, 
the  law  couldn't  touch  me,  for  every  man  has 
a  right  to  defend  his  own  property!  And  I 
will  fire  !  ...  By  God,  I  '11  fire  ! '  — 

He  ran  off  toward  the  house. 

*  Martin  Petrovitch,  look  out !  If  you  don't 
get  down,  I  '11  fire  ! ' 

*  Fire  away ! '  came  a  husky  voice  from  the 
roof.     '  Fire  away !     And  meanwhile  here 's  a  / 
little  present  for  you  ! ' 

123 


D 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

A  long  plank  flew  up,  and,  turning  over 
twice  in  the  air,  came  violently  to  the  earth, 
just  at  Sletkin's  feet.  He  positively  jumped 
into  the  air,  while  Harlov  chuckled. 

*  Merciful  Jesus  ! '  faltered  some  one  behind 
me.  I  looked  round  :  Souvenir.  *  Ah  ! '  I 
thought,  *  he  's  left  off  laughing  now  ! ' 

Sletkin  clutched  a  peasant,  who  was  standing 
near,  by  the  collar. 

*  Climb  up  now,  climb  up,  climb  up,  all  of 
you,  you  devils,'  he  wailed,  shaking  the  man 
with  all  his  force,  *  save  my  property ! ' 

The  peasant  took  a  couple  of  steps  for- 
ward, threw  his  head  back,  waved  his  arms, 
shouted — '  hi !  here  !  master  ! '  shifted  from  one 
foot  to  the  other  uneasily,  and  then  turned 
back. 

*  A  ladder !  bring  a  ladder ! '  Sletkin  ad- 
dressed the  other  peasants. 

*  Where  are  we  to  get  it  ? '  was  heard  in 
answer. 

'And  if  we  had  a  ladder,*  one  voice  pro- 
nounced deliberately,  *  who  'd  care  to  climb 
up  ?  Not  such  fools  !  He  'd  wring  your  neck 
for  you — in  a  twinkling  ! ' 

'He'd  kill  one  in  no  time,' said  one  young 
lad  with  flaxen  hair  and  a  half-idiotic  face. 

*  To  be  sure  he  would,'  the  others  confirmed. 
It  struck  me  that,  even  if  there  had  been  no 
obvious  danger,  the  peasants  would  yet  have 
been    loath   to   carry  out    their    new  owner's 

124 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

orders.      They  almost    approved   of    Harlov, 
though  they  were  amazed  at  him. 

*  Ugh,  you  robbers  ! '  moaned  Sletkin  ;  *  you 
shall  all  catch  it  .  .  .' 

But  at  this  moment,  with  a  heavy  rumble, 
the  last  chimney  came  crashing  down,  and,  in 
the  midst  of  the  cloud  of  yellow  dust  that  flew 
up  instantly,  Harlov — uttering  a  piercing  shriek 
and  lifting  his  bleeding  hands  high  in  the  air — 
turned  facing  us.  Sletkin  pointed  the  gun  at 
him  again. 

Evlampia  pulled  him  back  by  the  elbow. 

*  Don't  interfere  ! '  he  snarled  savagely  at  her. 

*  And  you — don't  you  dare  ! '  she  answered  ; 
and  her  blue  eyes  flashed  menacingly  under 
her  scowling  brows.  *  Father's  pulling  his 
house  down.     It 's  his  own.' 

*  You  lie :  it 's  ours  ! ' 

*  You  say  ours  ;  but  I  say  it 's  his.' 

Sletkin  hissed  with  fury  ;  Evlampia's  eyes 
seemed  stabbing  him  in  the  face. 

*  Ah,  how  d'  ye  do !  my  delightful  daughter ! ' 
Harlov  thundered   from   above.      *  How  d'  ye 
do !    Evlampia    Martinovna !      How   are   you 
getting  on  with  your  sweetheart?     Are  your/ 
kisses  sweet,  and  your  fondling?' 

*  Father  ! '  rang  out  Evlampia's  musical  v^oice. 

*  Eh,  daughter  ? '  answered  Harlov ;  and  he 
came  down  to  the  very  edge  of  the  wall.  His 
face,  as  far  as  I  could  make  it  out,  wore  a 
strange  smile,  a  bright,  mirthful — and  for  that 

125 


^j 


f 

I 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

very  reason  peculiarly  strange  and  evil — smile. 
.  .  .  Many  years  later  I  saw  just  the  same 
smile  on  the  face  of  a  man  condemned  to 
death. 

*  Stop,  father ;  come  down.  We  are  in  fault ; 
we  give  everything  back  to  you.     Come  down.* 

*  What  do  you  mean  by  disposing  of  what's 
ours  ?'  put  in  Sletkin.  Evlampia  merely  scowled 
more  angrily. 

*  I  give  you  back  my  share.  I  give  up 
everything.  Give  over,  come  down,  father! 
Forgive  us  ;  forgive  me.' 

Harlov  still  went  on  smiling.  '  It's  too  late, 
my  darling,'  he  said,  and  each  of  his  words  rang 
out  like  brass.  '  Too  late  your  stony  heart  is 
touched !  The  rock 's  started  rolling  downhill — 
there 's  no  holding  it  back  now  !  And  don't  look 
to  me  now  ;  I  'm  a  doomed  man  !  You  'd  do 
better  to  look  to  your  Volodka ;  see  what  a 
pretty  fellow  you've  picked  out!  And  look 
to  your  hellish  sister ;  there 's  her  foxy  nose 
yonder  thrust  out  of  the  window  ;  she 's  peering 
yonder  after  that  husband  of  hers !  No,  my 
good  friends ;  you  would  rob  me  of  a  roof 
over  my  head,  so  I  will  leave  you  not  one  beam 

\  upon  another  1     With  my  own  hands  I  built  it, 
with  my  own  hands  I  destroy  it, — yes,  with  my 

i  hands  alone !     See,  I  've  taken  no  axe  to  help 
me!' 

He  snorted  at  his  two  open  hands,  and 
clutched  at  the  centre  beam  again. 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

*  Enough,  father/  Evlampia  was  saying 
meanwhile,  and  her  voice  had  grown  mar- 
vellously caressing,  Met  bygones  be  bygones. 
Come,  trust  me ;  you  always  trusted  me. 
Come,  get  down ;  come  to  me  to  my  little 
room,  to  my  soft  bed.  I  will  dry  you  and  / 
warm  you ;  I  will  bind  up  your  wounds ;  see, 
you  have  torn  your  hands.  You  shall  live 
with  me  as  in  Christ's  bosom  ;  food  shall  be 
sweet  to  you — and  sleep  sweeter  yet.  Come, 
we  have  done  wrong !  yes,  we  were  puffed  up, 
we  have  sinned  ;  come,  forgive  ! ' 
^.  Harlov  shook  his  head.  'Talk  away!  Me 
believe  you  !  Never  again  !  You've  murdered 
all  trust  in  my  heart !  You  've  murdered  every- 
thing! I  was  an  eagle,  and  became  a  worm  for 
you  .  .  .  and  you, — would  you  even  crush  the 
worm  ?  Have  done !  I  loved  you,  you  know 
very  well, — but  now  you  are  no  daughter  to 
me,  and  I  'm  no  father  to  you  .  .  .  I  'm  a 
doomed  man !  Don't  meddle !  As  for  you, 
fire  away,  coward,  mighty  man  of  valour!* 
Harlov  bellowed  suddenly  at  Sletkin.  *Why 
is  it  you  keep  aiming  and  don't  shoot  ?  Are 
you  mindful  of  the  law ;  if  the  recipient  of  a 
gift  commits  an  attempt  upon  the  life  of  the 
giver,'  Harlov  enunciated  distinctly,  *  then  the 
giver  is  empowered  to  claim  everything  back 
again?  Ha,  ha!  don't  be  afraid,  law-abiding 
man  !  I  'd  make  no  claims.  I  '11  make  an  end 
of  everything  myself.  ,  .  .  Here  goes  I  * 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

'Father!'  for  the  last  time  Evlampia  be- 
sought him. 

*  Silence !  * 

*  Martin   Petrovitch !    brother,  be    generous 
/  and  forgive ! '  faltered  Souvenir. 

*  Father  !  dear  father ! ' 

*  Silence,  bitch  ! '  shouted  Harlov.  At  Sou- 
venir he  did  not  even  glance, — he  merely  spat 
in  his  direction. 


128 


XXVII 

At  that  instant,  Kvitsinsky,  with  all  his  retinue 
— in  three  carts — appeared  at  the  gates.     The  c. 

tired  horses  panted,  the  men  jumped  out,  one 
after  another,  into  the  mud. 

*  Aha ! '  Harlov  shouted  at  the  top  of  his 
voice.  'An  army  .  .  .  here  it  comes,  an  army  ! 
A  whole  army  they  're  sending  against  me ! 
Capital !  Only  I  give  warning — if  any  one 
comes  up  here  to  me  on  the  roof,  I  '11  send  him 
flying  down,  head  over  heels !  I  'm  an  in- 
hospitable master ;  I  don't  like  visitors  at 
wrong  times  !     No  indeed  ! ' 

He  was  hanging  with  both  hands  on  to  the 
front  rafters  of  the  roof,  the  so-called  standards 
of  the  gable,  and  beginning  to  shake  them 
violently.  Balancing  on  the  edge  of  the  garret 
flooring,  he  dragged  them,  as  it  were,  after  him, 
chanting  rhythmically  like  a  bargeman,  *One 
more  pull !  one  more  !  o-oh  ! ' 

Sletkin  ran  up  to  Kvitsinsky  and  was  be- 
ginning to  whimper  and  pour  out  complaints. 
.  .  .  The  latter  begged  him  'not  to  interfere,* 
and  proceeded  to  carry  out  the  plan  he  had 

129  I 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

evolved.  He  took  up  his  position  in  front  of 
the  house,  and  began,  by  way  of  diversion,  to 
explain  to  Harlov  that  what  he  was  about  was 
unworthy  of  his  rank.  .  .  . 

*  One  more  pull !  one  more  ! '  chanted  Harlov. 
.  .  .  *That  Natalia  Nikolaevna  was  greatly 

displeased  at  his  proceedings,  and  had  not  ex- 
pected it  of  him.'  .  .  . 

^  One  more  pull !  one  more  !  o-oh ! '  Harlov 
chanted  .  .  .  while,  meantime,  Kvitsinsky  had 
despatched  the  four  sturdiest  and  boldest  of 
the  stable-boys  to  the  other  side  of  the  house 
to  clamber  up  the  roof  from  behind.  Harlov, 
however,  detected  the  plan  of  attack ;  he  sud- 
denly left  the  standards  and  ran  quickly  to  the 
back  part  of  the  roof.  His  appearance  was  so 
alarming  that  the  two  stable-boys  who  had 
already  got  up  to  the  garret,  dropped  instantly 
back  again  to  the  ground  by  the  water-pipe, 
to  the  great  glee  of  the  serf  boys,  who  positively 
roared  with  laughter.  Harlov  shook  his  fist 
after  them  and,  going  back  to  the  front  part  of 
the  house,  again  clutched  at  the  standards  and 
began  once  more  loosening  them,  singing 
again,  like  a  bargeman. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  stared.  .  .  . 

*  Maximushka,  my  dear !  my  friend  ! '  he 
cried  ;  *  is  it  you  ? ' 

I  looked  round.  .  .  .  There,  actually,  was 
Maximka,  stepping  out  from  the  crowd  of 
peasants.     Grinning  and  showing  his  teeth,  he 

130 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

walked  forward.     His  master,  the  tailor,  had 
probably  let  him  come  home  for  a  holiday. 

*  Climb  up  to  me,  Maximushka,  my  faithful 
servant,'  Harlov  went  on;  'together  let  us  rid 
ourselves  of  evil  Tartar  folk,  of  Lithuanian 
thieves ! ' 

Maximka,  still  grinning,  promptly  began 
climbing  up  the  roof.  ...  But  they  seized  him 
and  pulled  him  back — goodness  knows  why ; 
possibly  as  an  example  to  the  rest ;  he  could 
hardly  have  been  much  aid  to  Martin  Petro- 
vitch. 

*  Oh,  all  right !  Good  ! '  Harlov  pronounced, 
in  a  voice  of  menace,  and  again  he  took  hold 
of  the  standards. 

*  Vikenty  Osipovitch  !  with  your  permission, 
I  '11  shoot,'  Sletkin  turned  to  Kvitsinsky  ;  '  more 
to  frighten  him,  see,  than  anything;  my  gun's 
only  charged  with  snipe-shot. '^  vBut  Kvitsinsky 
had  not  time  to  answer  him,  when  the  front 
couple  of  standards,  viciously  shaken  in  Harlov's) 
iron  hands,  heeled  over  with  a  loud  crack  and 
crashed  into  the  yard  ;  and  with  it,  not  able 
to  stop  himself,  came  Harlov  too,  and  fell  with  , 
a  heavy  thud  on  the  earth.  Every  one  shud- 
dered and  drew  a  deep  breath.  .  .  .  Harlov  lay 
without  stirring  on  his  breast,  and  on  his  back 
lay  the  top  central  beam  of  the  roof,  which  had 
come  down  with  the  falling  gable's  timbers. 


131 


XXVIII 

They  ran  up  to  Harlov,  rolled  the  beam  off 
him,  turned  him  over  on  his  back.  His  face 
was  lifeless,  there  was  blood  about  his  mouth  ; 
he  did  not  seem  to  breathe.  *  The  breath  is 
gone  out  of  him/  muttered  the  peasants, 
standing  about  him.  They  ran  to  the  well 
for  water,  brought  a  whole  bucketful,  and 
drenched  Harlov's  head.  The  mud  and  dust 
ran  off  his  face,  but  he  looked  as  lifeless 
as  ever.  They  dragged  up  a  bench,  set  it 
in  the  house  itself,  and  with  difficulty  raising 
the  huge  body  of  Martin  Petrovitch,  laid 
it  there  with  the  head  to  the  wall.  The 
page  Maximka  approached,  fell  on  one  knee, 
and,  his  other  leg  stretched  far  behind 
him,  in  a  theatrical  way,  supported  his  former 
master's  arm.  Evlampia,  pale  as  death, 
stood  directly  facing  her  father,  her  great  eyes 
fastened  immovably  upon  him.  Anna  and 
Sletkin  did  not  come  near  him.  All  were 
silent,  all,  as   it  were,  waited   for  something. 

132 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

At  last  we  heard  broken,  smacking  noises  in 
Harlov's  throat,  as  though  he  were  swallowing. 

.  .  Then  he  feebly  moved  one,  his  right, 
hand  (Maximka  supported  the  left),  opened 
one,  the  right  eye,  and  slowly  gazing  about 
him,  as  though  drunken  with  some  fearful 
drunkenness,  groaned,  articulated,  stammering, 
'  I  'm  sma-ashed '  .  .  .  and  as  though  after  a 
moment's  thought,  added,  'here  it  is,  the 
ra  .  . .  aven  co  .  .  .  olt ! '  The  blood  suddenly 
gushed  thickly  from  his  mouth  ...  his  whole 
body  began  to  quiver.  .  .  . 

*The  end!'  I  thought.  .  .  .  But  once  more 
Harlov  opened  the  same  eye  (the  left  eyelid 
lay  as  motionless  as  on  a  dead  man's  face),  and 
fixing  it  on  Evlampia,  he  articulated,  hardly 
above  a  breath,  *  Well,  daugh  .  .  .  ter  .  .  .  you, 
I  do  not  .  .  .* 
V  Kvitsinsky,  with  a  sharp  motion  of  his  hand, 
beckoned  to  the  priest,  who  was  still  standing 
on  the  step.  .  .  .  The  old  man  came  up,  his 
narrow  cassock  clinging  about  his  feeble  knees. 
But  suddenly  there  was  a  sort  of  horrible 
twitching  in  Harlov's  legs  and  in  his  stomach 
too ;  an  irregular  contraction  passed  upwards 
over  his  face.  Evlampia's  face  seemed  quiver-  I 
ing  and  working  in  the  same  way.  Maximka  ! 
began  crossing  himself  ...  I  was  seized  with 
horror;  I  ran  out  to  the  gates,  squeezed  myself 
close  to  them,  not  looking  round.  A  minute 
later  a  soft  murmur  ran  through  the  crowd, 

^33 


'A 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

behind  my  back,  and  I  understood  that  Martin 
Petrovitch  was  no  more. 

His  skull  had  been  fractured  by  the  beam 
and  his  ribs  injured,  as  it  appeared  at  the 
post-mortem  examination. 


134 


XXIX 

What  had  he  wanted  to  say  to  her  as  he  lay 
dying?  I  asked  myself  as  I  went  home  on  my 
cob :  *  I  do  not  .  .  .  forgive/  or  '  do  not  .  .  . 
pardon.'  The  rain  had  come  on  again,  but  I 
rode  at  a  walking  pace.  I  wanted  to  be  alone 
as  long  as  possible ;  I  wanted  to  give  myself 
up  to  my  reflections,  unchecked.  Souvenir  had 
gone  back  in  one  of  the  carts  that  had  come 
with  Kvitsinsky.  Young  and  frivolous  as  I  was 
at  that  time,  the  sudden  sweeping  change  (not 
in  mere  details  only)  that  is  invariably  called 
forth  in  all  hearts  by  the  coming  of  death — 
expected  or  unexpected,  it  makes  no  difference  ! 
— its  majesty,  its  gravity,  and  its  truthfulness 
could  not  fail  to  impress  me.  I  was  impressed 
too,  .  .  .  but  for  all  that,  my  troubled,  childish 
eyes  noted  many  things  at  once ;  they  noted 
how  Sletkin,  hurriedly  and  furtively,  as  though 
it  were  something  stolen,  popped  the  gun  out 
of  sight ;  how  he  and  his  wife  became,  both  of 
them,  instantly  the  object  of  a  sort  of  unspoken 
but  universal  aloofness.  To  Evlampia,  though 
her  fault  was  probably  no  less  than  her  sister's, 

135 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

this  aloofness  did  not  extend.  She  even  aroused 
a  certain  sympathy,  when  she  fell  at  her  dead 
father's  feet.  But  that  she  too  was  guilty,  that 
was  none  the  less  felt  by  all.  '  The  old  man 
was  wronged,'  said  a  grey-haired  peasant  with 
a  big  head,  leaning,  like  some  ancient  judge, 
with  both  hands  and  his  beard  on  a  long  staff; 
*  on  your  soul  lies  the  sin!  You  wronged  him ! ' 
That  saying  was  at  once  accepted  by  every  one 
as  the  final  judgment.  The  peasants'  sense  of 
justice  found  expression  in  it,  I  felt  that  at 
once.  I  noticed  too  that,  at  the  first,  Sletkin  did 
not  dare  to  give  directions.  Without  him,  they 
lifted  up  the  body  and  carried  it  into  the  other 
house.  Without  asking  him,  the  priest  went 
for  everything  needful  to  the  church,  while  the 
village  elder  ran  to  the  village  to  send  off  a  cart 
and  horse  to  the  town.  Even  Anna  Martinovna 
did  not  venture  to  use  her  ordinary  imperious 
tone  in  ordering  the  samovar  to  be  brought, 
*for  hot  water,  to  wash  the  deceased.'  Her 
orders  were  more  like  an  entreaty,  and  she 
was  answered  rudely.  ... 

I  was  absorbed  all  the  while  by  the  question. 
What  was  it  exactly  he  wanted  to  say  to  his 
daughter?  Did  he  want  to  forgive  her  or  to 
curse  her?  Finally  I  decided  that  it  was — 
forgiveness. 

Three  days  later,  the  funeral  of  Martin  Petro- 
vitch  took  place.  The  cost  of  the  ceremony 
was  undertaken  by  my  mother,  who  was  deeply 

136 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

grieved  at  his  death,  and  gave  orders  that  no 
expense  was  to  be  spared.  She  did  not  herself 
go  to  the  church,  because  she  was  unwilling, 
as  she  said,  to  set  eyes  on  those  two  vile 
hussies  and  that  nasty  little  Jew.  But  she 
sent  Kvitsinsky,  me,  and  Zhitkov,  though  from 
that  time  forward  she  always  spoke  of  the  latter 
as  a  regular  old  woman.  Souvenir  she  did  not 
admit  to  her  presence,  and  was  furious  with  him 
for  long  after,  saying  that  he  was  the  murderer 
of  her  friend.  He  felt  his  disgrace  acutely  ;  he 
was  continually  running,  on  tiptoe,  up  and  down 
the  room,  next  to  the  one  where  my  mother 
was ;  he  gave  himself  up  to  a  sort  of  scared 
and  abject  melancholy,  shuddering  and  mutter- 
ing, *  d'rectly ! ' 

In  church,  and  during  the  procession,  Sletkin 
struck  me  as  having  recovered  his  self-posses- 
sion. He  gave  directions  and  bustled  about  in 
his  old  way,  and  kept  a  greedy  look-out  that  not 
a  superfluous  farthing  should  be  spent,  though 
his  own  pocket  was  not  in  question.  Maximka, 
in  a  new  Cossack  dress,  also  a  present  from  my 
mother,  gave  vent  to  such  tenor  notes  in  the 
choir,  that  certainly  no  one  could  have  any 
doubts  as  to  the  sincerity  of  his  devotion  to 
the  deceased.  Both  the  sisters  were  duly 
attired  in  mourning,  but  they  seemed  more 
stupefied  than  grieved,  especially  Evlampia. 
Anna  wore  a  meek,  Lenten  air,  but  made  no 
attempt  to  weep,  and  was  continually  passing 

137 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

her  handsome,  thin  hand  over  her  hair  and 
cheek.  Evlampia  seemed  deep  in  thought  all 
the  time.  The  universal,  unbending  alienation, 
condemnation,  which  I  had  noticed  on  the  day 
of  Harlov's  death,  I  detected  now  too  on  the 
faces  of  all  the  people  in  the  church,  in  their 
actions  and  their  glances,  but  still  more  grave 
and,  as  it  were,  impersonal.  It  seemed  as 
though  all  those  people  felt  that  the  sin  into 
which  the  Harlov  family  had  fallen — this  great 
sin — had  gone  now  before  the  presence  of  the 
one  righteous  Judge,  and  that  for  that  reason, 
there  was  no  need  now  for  them  to  trouble 
themselves  and  be  indignant.  They  prayed 
devoutly  for  the  soul  of  the  dead  ma.n^  whom 
in  life  they  had  not  specially  liked,  whom  they 
had  feared  indeed.  Very  abruptly  had  death 
overtaken  him. 

'  And  it 's  not  as  though  he  had  been  drinking 
heavily,  brother,'  said  one  peasant  to  another, 
in  the  porch. 
r\      *  Nay,  without  drink  he  was  drunken  indeed, 
responded  the  other. 

*  He  was  cruelly  wronged,'  the  first  peasant 
repeated  the  phrase  that  summed  it  up. 

'  Cruelly  wronged,'  the  others  murmured  after 
him. 

*The  deceased  was  a  hard  master  to  you, 
wasn't  he  ? '  I  asked  a  peasant,  whom  I  recog- 
nised as  one  of  Harlov's  serfs. 

*  He    was    a    master,    certainly,'    answered 

138 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

the    peasant,   'but    still  ...  he  was    cruelly 
wronged ! ' 

*  Cruelly  wronged/  ...  I  heard  again  in  the 
crowd. 

At  the  grave,  too,  Evlampia  stood,  as  it 
were,  lost.  Thoughts  were  torturing  her  .  .  . 
bitter  thoughts.  I  noticed  that  Sletkin,  who 
several  times  addressed  some  remark  to  her,  O 

she  treated  as  she  had  once  treated  Zhitkov, 
and  worse  still. 

Some  days  later,  there  was  a  rumour  all  over 
our  neighbourhood,  that  Evlampia  Martinovna 
had  left  the  home  of  her  fathers  for  ever, 
leaving  all  the-  property  that  came  to  her  to 
her  sister  and  brother-in-law,  and  only  taking 
some  hundreds  of  roubles.  .  .  .  *So  Anna's 
bought  her  out,  it  seems ! '  remarked  my 
mother ;  *  but  you  and  I,  certainly,'  she  added, 
addressing  Zhitkov,  with  whom  she  was  play- 
ing picquet — he  took  Souvenir's  place,  '  are  not 
skilful  hands  ! '  Zhitkov  looked  dejectedly  at 
his  mighty  palms.  ...  *  Hands  like  that !  Not 
skilful ! '  he  seemed  to  be  saying  to  himself  ... 

Soon  after,  my  mother  and  I  went  to  live  in    ,  - 
Moscow,  and  many  years  passed  before  it  was 
my  lot  to  behold  Martin  Petrovitch's  daughters 
again. 


/ 


139 


XXX 

But  I  did  see  them  again.     Anna  Martinovna 
I  came  across  in  the  most  ordinary  way. 

After  my  mother's  death  I  paid  a  visit  to  our 
village,  where  I  had  not  been  for  over  fifteen 
years,  and  there  I  received  an  invitation  from 
the  mediator  (at  that  time  the  process  of  settling 
the  boundaries  between  the  peasants  and  their 
former  owners  was  taking  place  over  the  whole 
of  Russia  with  a  slowness  not  yet  forgotten)  to  a 
meeting  of  the  other  landowners  of  our  neigh- 
bourhood, to  be  held  on  the  estate  of  the  widow 
Anna  Sletkin.  The  news  that  my  mother's 
*  nasty  little  Jew,' with  the  prune-coloured  eyes, 
no  longer  existed  in  this  world,  caused  me,  I  con- 
fess, no  regret  whatever.  But  it  was  interesting 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  his  widow.  She  had  the 
reputation  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  first-rate 
manager.  And  so  it  proved  ;  her  estate  and 
homestead  and  the  house  itself  (I  could  not  help 
glancing  at  the  roof;  it  was  an  iron  one)  all 
turned  out  to  be  in  excellent  order ;  everything 
was    neat,   clean,   tidied-up,   where    needful — 

painted,  as  though  its  mistress  were  a  German. 

140 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Anna  Martinovna  herself,  of  course,  looked  older. 
But  the  peculiar,  cold,  and,  as  it  were,  wicked 
charm  which  had  once  so  fascinated  me  had 
not  altogether  left  her.  She  was  dressed  in 
rustic  fashion,  but  elegantly.  She  received  us, 
not  cordially — that  word  was  not  applicable 
to  her — but  courteously,  and  on  seeing  me,  a 
witness  of  that  fearful  scene,  not  an  eyelash 
quivered.  She  made  not  the  slightest  reference 
to  my  mother,  nor  her  father,  nor  her  sister, 
nor  her  husband. 

She  had  two  daughters,  both  very  pretty,  i 
slim  young  things,  with  charming  little  faces 
and  a  bright  and  friendly  expression  in  their 
black  eyes.  There  was  a  son,  too,  a  little  like 
his  father,  but  still  a  boy  to  be  proud  of! 
During  the  discussions  between  the  landowners, 
Anna  Martinovna's  attitude  was  composed  and 
dignified,  she  showed  no  sign  of  being  speci- 
ally obstinate,  nor  specially  grasping.  But 
none  had  a  truer  perception  of  their  own 
interests  than  she  of  hers  ;  none  could  more 
convincingly  expound  and  defend  their  rights. 
All  the  laws  'pertinent  to  the  case,'  even  the 
Minister's  circulars,  she  had  thoroughly 
mastered.  She  spoke  little,  and  in  a  quiet 
voice,  but  every  word  she  uttered  was  to  the 
point.  It  ended  in  our  all  signifying  our 
agreement  to  all  her  demands,  and  making 
concessions,  which  we  could  only  marvel  at 
ourselves.      On   our  way  home,  some  of  the 

141 


\ 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

worthy  landowners  even  used  harsh  words  of 
themselves ;  they  all  hummed  and  hawed,  and 
shook  their  heads. 

*  Ah,  she 's  got  brains  that  woman !  *  said  one. 
'  A  tricky  baggage ! '    put   in   another   less 

delicate  proprietor.  '  Smooth  in  word,  but 
cruel  in  deed  ! ' 

*  And  a  screw  into  the  bargain  ! '  added  a 
third  ;  *  not  a  glass  of  vodka  nor  a  morsel  of 
caviare  for  us — what  do  you  think  of  that  ? ' 

*  What  can  one  expect  of  her  ? '  suddenly 
croaked  a  gentleman  who  had  been  silent  till 
then,  *  every  one  knows  she  poisoned  her 
husband !  * 

To  my  astonishment,  nobody  thought  fit  to 
controvert  this  awful  and  certainly  unfounded 
charge !  I  was  the  more  surprised  at  this,  as, 
in  spite  of  the  slighting  expressions  I  have 
reported,  all  of  them  felt  respect  for  Anna 
Martinovna,  not  excluding  the  indelicate  land- 
owner. As  for  the  mediator,  he  waxed  posi- 
tively eloquent. 

*  Put  her  on  a  throne,'  he  exclaimed, '  she  'd 
be  another  Semiramis  or  Catherine  the  Second ! 
The  discipline  among  her  peasants  is  a  perfect 
model.  .  .  .  The  education  of  her  children  it 
model !     What  a  head  !     What  brains  ! ' 

Without  going  into  the  question  of  Semirami's 
and  Catherine,  there  was  no  doubt  Anna  Mar- 
tinovna was  living  a  very  happy  life.      Ea  e, 

inward  and  external,  the  pleasant  serenity  of 

142 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

spiritual  health,  seemed  the  very  atmosphere 
about  herself,  her  family,  all  her  surroundings. 
Howfar  she  had  deserved  such  happiness  . . .  that 
is  another  question.  Such  questions,  though,  are 
only  propounded  in  youth.  Everything  in  the 
world,  good  and  bad,  comes  to  man,  not  through 
his  deserts,  but  in  consequence  of  some  as  yet 
unknown  but  logical  laws  which  I  will  not 
take  upon  myself  to  indicate,  though  I  some- 
times fancy  I  have  a  dim  perception  of  them. 


143 


XXXI 

I  QUESTIONED  the  mediator  about  Evlampia 
Martinovna,  and  learnt  that  she  had  been  lost 
sight  of  completely  ever  since  she  left  home, 
and  probably  *  had  departed  this  life  long  ago.' 
,  So  our  worthy  mediator  expressed  himself 
I  .  .  .  but  I  am  convinced  that  I  have  seen 
'  Evlampia,  that  I  have  come  across  her.  This 
was  how  it  was. 

Four  years  after  my  interview  with  Anna 
Martinovna,  I  was  spending  the  summer  at 
Murino,  a  little  hamlet  near  Petersburg,  a 
well-known  resort  of  summer  visitors  of  the 
middle  class.  The  shooting  was  pretty  decent 
about  Murino  at  that  time,  and  I  used  to  go 
out  with  my  gun  almost  every  day.  I  had  a 
companion  on  my  expeditions,  a  man  of  the 
tradesman  class,  called  Vikulov,  a  very  sensible 
and  good-natured  fellow ;  but,  as  he  said  of 
himself,  of  no  position  whatever.  This  man 
had  been  simply  everywhere,  and  everything ! 
Nothing  could  astonish  him,  he  knew  every- 
thing— but  he  cared  for  nothing  but  shooting 
and  wine.     Well,  one  day  we  were  on  our  way 

144 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

home  to  Murino,  and  we  chanced  to  pass  a 
solitary  house,  standing  at  the  cross-roads,  and 
enclosed  by  a  high,  close  paling.  It  was  not 
the  first  time  I  had  seen  the  house,  and  every 
time  it  excited  my  curiosity.  There  was  some- 
thing about  it  mysterious,  locked-up,  grimly- 
dumb,  something  suggestive  of  a  prison  or  a 
hospital.  Nothing  of  it  could  be  seen  from 
the  road  but  its  steep,  dark,  red-painted  roof. 
There  was  only  one  pair  of  gates  in  the  whole 
fence ;  and  these  seemed  fastened  and  never 
opened.  No  sound  came  from  the  other  side 
of  them.  For  all  that,  we  felt  that  some  one 
was  certainly  living  in  the  house  ;  it  had  not 
at  all  the  air  of  a  deserted  dwelling.  On  the 
contrary,  everything  about  it  was  stout,  and 
and  tight,  and  strong,  as  if  it  would  stand  a 
siege ! 

*  What  is  that  fortress  ? '  I  asked  my  com- 
panion.    'Don't  you  know?' 

Vikulov  gave  a  sly  wink.  *  A  fine  building, 
eh?  The  police-captain  of  these  parts  gets  a 
nice  little  income  out  of  it ! ' 

'How's  that.?' 

*  I  '11  tell  you.  You  've  heard,  I  daresay,  of 
the  Flagellant  dissenters — that  do  without 
priests,  you  know  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

*  Well,  it 's  there  that  their  chief  mother  lives.' 

*  A  woman  ? ' 

*  Yes — the  mother ;  a  mother  of  God,  they  say.* 

145  K 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

*  Nonsense !  * 

*  I  tell  you,  it  is  so.  She  is  a  strict  one,  they 
say.  .  .  .  A  regular  commander-in-chief !  She 
rules  over  thousands !  I  'd  take  her,  and  all 
these  mothers  of  God  .  .  .  But  what 's  the  use 
of  talking  ? ' 

He  called  his  Pegashka,  a  marvellous  dog, 
with  an  excellent  scent,  but  with  no  notion  of 
setting.  Vikulov  was  obliged  to  tie  her  hind 
paws  to  keep  her  from  running  so  furiously. 

His  words  sank  into  my  memory.  I  some- 
times went  out  of  my  way  to  pass  by  the 
mysterious  house.  One  day  I  had  just  got  up 
to  it,  when  suddenly — wonderful  to  relate  ! — a 
bolt  grated  in  the  gates,  a  key  creaked  in  the 
lock,  then  the  gates  themselves  slowly  parted, 
there  appeared  a  large  horse's  head,  with  a 
plaited  forelock  under  a  decorated  yoke,  and 
slowly  there  rolled  into  the  road  a  small  cart, 
like  those  driven  by  horse-dealers,  and  higglers. 
On  the  leather  cushion  of  the  cart,  near  to  me,  sat 
a  peasant  of  about  thirty,  of  a  remarkably  hand- 
some and  attractive  appearance,  in  a  neat  black 
smock,  and  a  black  cap,  pulled  down  low  on 
^  his  forehead.  He  was  carefully  driving  the 
well-fed  horse,  whose  sides  were  as  broad  as  a 
stove.  Beside  the  peasant,  on  the  far  side  of 
the  cart,  sat  a  tall  woman,  as  straight  as  an 
i  arrow.  Her  head  was  covered  by  a  costly- 
looking  black  shawl.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
short  jerkin   of   dove-coloured   velvet,   and   a 

J46 


A  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

dark  blue  merino  skirt ;  her  white  hands  she 
held  discreetly  clasped  on  her  bosom.  The 
cart  turned  on  the  road  to  the  left,  and  brought 
the  woman  within  two  paces  of  me  ;  she  turned 
her  head  a  little,  and  I  recognised  Evlampia 
Harlov.  I  knew  her  at  once,  I  did  not  doubt 
for  one  instant,  and  indeed  no  doubt  was  pos- 
sible ;  eyes  like  hers,  and  above  all  that  cut  of 
the  lips — haughty  and  sensual — I  had  never 
seen  in  any  one  else.  Her  face  had  grown 
longer  and  thinner,  the  skin  was  darker,  here 
and  there  lines  could  be  discerned  ;  but,  above 
all,  the  expression  of  the  face  was  changed  ! 
It  is  difficult  to  do  justice  in  words  to  the  self- 
confidence,  the  sternness,  the  pride  it  had 
gained !  Not  simply  the  serenity  of  power — 
the  satiety  of  power  was  visible  in  every  feature. 
The  careless  glance  she  cast  at  me  told  of  long 
years  of  habitually  meeting  nothing  but  rev- 
erent, unquestioning  obedience.  That  woman  / 
clearly  lived  surrounded,  not  by  worshippers,  | 
but  by  slaves.  She  had  clearly  forgotten  even  / 
the  time  when  any  command,  any  desire  of 
hers,  was  not  carried  out  at  the  instant !  I 
called  her  loudly  by  her  name  and  her  father's ;  ^ 
she  gave  a  faint  start,  looked  at  me  a  second 
time,  not  with  alarm,  but  with  contemptuous 
wrath,  as  though  asking — 'Who  dares  to  dis- 
turb me  ? '  and  barely  parting  her  lips,  uttered 
a  word  of  command.  The  peasant  sitting 
beside  her  started  forward,  with  a  wave  of  his 

147 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

arm  struck  the  horse  with  the  reins — the  horse 
set  off  at  a  strong  rapid  trot,  and  the  cart  dis- 
appeared. 

Since  then  I  have  not  seen  Evlampia  again. 
In  what  way  Martin  Petrovitch's  daughter  came 
to  be  a  Holy  Virgin  in  the  Flagellant  sect  I 
cannot  imagine.  But,  who  knows,  very  likely 
she  has  founded  a  sect  which  will  be  called — 
or  even  now  is  called — after  her  name,  the 
Evlampieshtchin  sect  ?  Anything  may  be, 
anything  may  come  to  pass. 

And  so  this  is  what  I  had  to  tell  you  of  my 
Lear  of  the  Steppes,  of  his  family  and  his  doings. 

The  story-teller  ceased,  and  we  talked  a  little 
longer,  and  then  parted,  each  to  his  home. 

Weimar,  1870. 


148 


FAUST 


FAUST 

A  STORY  IN   NINE  LETTERS 
Entbehren  soils t  du,  sollst  entbehren  (Faust,  Part  I.) 

FIRST  LETTER 

FROM   PAVEL  ALEXANDROVITCH   B.  ...   TO 
SEMYON   NIKOLAEVITCH  V.  .  .  . 

M Village,  6ihjune  1850. 

I  HAVE  been  here  for  three  days,  my  dear 
fellow,  and,  as  I  promised,  I  take  up  my  pen 
to  write  to  you.  It  has  been  drizzling  with  fine 
rain  ever  since  the  morning ;  I  can't  go  out ; 
and  I  want  a  little  chat  with  you,  too.  Here  I 
am  again  in  my  old  home,  where — it's  a  dread- 
ful thing  to  say — I  have  not  been  for  nine  long 
years.  Really,  as  you  may  fancy,  I  have  be- 
come quite  a  different  man.  Yes,  utterly 
different,  indeed  ;  do  you  remember,  in  the 
drawing-room,  the  little  tarnished  looking-glass 
of  my  great-grandmother's,  with  the  queer  little 
curly  scrolls  in  the  corners — you  always  used  to 
be  speculating  on  what  it  had  seen  a  hundred 

151 


(D 


FAUST 

years  ago — directly  I  arrived,  I  went  up  to 
it,  and  I  could  not  help  feeling  disconcerted.  I 
suddenly  saw  how  old  and_changed  I  had 
become  in  these  last  years.  But  I  am  not 
alone  in  that  respect.  My  little  house^  which 
was  old  and  tottering  long  ago,  will  hardly 
hold  together  now,  it  i5-_all  on  the  slant,  and 
seems  sunk  into  the  ground.  My  dear  VajSN 
lievna,  the  housekeeper  (you  can't  have  for- 
gotten her;  she  used  to  regale  you  with 
such  capital  jam),  is  quite  shrivelled  up  and 
bent ;  when  she  saw  me,  she  could  not  call  out, 
and  did  not  start  crying,  but  only  moaned  and 
choked,  sank  helplessly  into  a  chair,  and  waved 
her  hand.  Old  Terenty  has  some  spirit  left  in 
him  still ;  he  hold's  himself  up  as  much  as  ever, 
and  turns  out  his  feet  as  he  walks.  He  still 
wears  the  same  yellow  nankeen  breeches,  and 
the  same  creaking  goatskin  slippers,  with  high 
heels  and  ribbons,  which  touched  you  so  much 
sometimes,  .  .  .  but,  mercy  on  us ! — how  the 
breeches  flap  about  his  thin  legs  nowadays ! 
how  white  his_  hair  has  grown!  and  his  face 
has  shrunk  up  into  a  sort  of  little  fist.  When 
he  speaks  to  me,  when  he  begins  directing  the 
servants,  and  giving  orders  in  the  next  room,  it 
makes  me  laugh  and  feel  sorry  for  him.  All 
his  teeth  are  gone,  and  he  mumbles  with  a 
whistling,  hissing  sound.  On_the  j^ihfir  hand, 
the^arden  has  got^qn  wonderfully.  The  modest 
little  plants  of  lilac,  acacia,  and  honeysuckle 

152 


FAUST 

(do  you  remember,  we  planted  them  together  ?) 
have  grown  into  splendid,  thick  bushes.  The 
birches,  the  maples — all  that  has  spread  out  and 
grown  tall ;  the  avenues  of  lime-trees  are  par- 
ticularly fine.  I  love  those  avenues,  I  love  the 
tender  grey,  green  colour,  and  the  delicate 
fragrance  of  the  air  under  their  arching  boughs  ; 
I  love  the  changing  network  of  rings  of  light 
on  the  dark  earth — there  is  no  sand  here,  you 
know.  My  favourite  oak  sapling  has  grown 
into  a  young  oak  tree.  Yesterday  I  spent  more 
than  an  hour  in  the  middle  of  the  day  on  a 
garden  bench  in  its  shade.  I  felt  very  happy. 
All  about  me  the  grass  was  deliciously  luxuriant ; 
a  rich,  soft,  golden  light  lay  upon  everything  ;  it 
made  its  way  even  into  the  shade  .  .  .  and  the 
birds  one  could  hear !  You  've  not  forgotten,  I 
expect,  that  birds  are  a  passion  of  mine  ?  The 
turtle-doves  cooed  unceasingly ;  from  time  to 
time  there  came  the  whistle  of  the  oriole ;  the 
chaffinch  uttered  its  sweet  little  refrain  ;  the 
blackbirds  quarrelled  and  twittered  ;  the  cuckoo 
called  far  away ;  suddenly,  like  a  mad  thing, 
the  woodpecker  uttered  its  shrill  cry.  I  listened 
and  listened  to  this  subdued,  mingled  sound, 
and  did  not  want  to  move,  while  my  heart 
was  full  of  something  between  languor  and 
tenderness. 

And  it 's  not  only  the  garden  that  has  grown 
up:  I  am  continually  coming  across  ^sturdy, 
thick-set  lads,  whom  I  cannot  recognise  as  the 

153 


FAUST 

little  boys  I  used  to  know  in  old  days.  Youf 
favourite,  Timosha,  has  turned  into  a  Timofay, 
such  as  you  could  never  imagine.  You  had 
fears  in  those  days  for  his  health,  and  predicted 
consumption  ;  but  now  you  should  just  see  his 
huge,  red  hands,  as  they  stick  out  from  the 
narrow  sleeves  of  his  nankeen  coat,  and  the  stout 
rounded  muscles  that  stand  out  all  over  him ! 
He  has  a  neck  like  a  bull's,  and  a  head  all  over 
tight,  fair  curls — a  regular  Farnese  Hercules. 
His  face,  though,  has  changed  less  than  the 
others' ;  it  is  not  even  much  larger  in  circum- 
ference, and  the  good-humoured,  *  gaping' — as 
you  used  to  say — smile  has  remained  the  same. 
I  have  taken  him  to  be  my  valet ;  I  got  rid  of 
my  Petersburg  fellow  at  Moscow  ;  he  was  really 
too  fond  of  putting  me  to  shame,  and  making 
me  feel  the  superiority  of  his  Petersburg  man- 
ners. Of  my  dogs  I  have  not  found  one ;  they 
have  all  passed  away.  Nefka  lived  longer  than 
any  of  them — and  she  did  not  live  till  my  return, 
as  Argos  lived  till  the  return  of  Ulysses;  she  was 
not  fated  to  look  once  more  with  her  lustreless 
eyes  on  her  master  and  companion  in  the  chase. 
But  Shavka  is  all  right,  and  barks  as  hoarsely  as 
ever,  and  has  one  ear  torn  just  the  same,  and 
burrs  sticking  to  his  tail, — all  just  as  it  should  be. 
I  have  taken  up  my  abode  in  what  was  your 
room.  It  is  true  the  sun  beats  down  upon  it, 
and  there  are  a  lot  of  flies  in  it ;  but  there  is 
less  of  the  smell  of  the  old  house  in  it  than  in 

154 


FAUST 

the  other  rooms.  It 's  a  queer  thing ;  that  musty, 
rather  sour,  faint  smell  has  a  powerful  effect  on 
my  imagination ;  I  don't  mean  that  it 's  dis- 
agreeable to  me,  quite  the  contrary,  but  it 
produces  melancholy,  and,  at  last,  depression. 
I  am  very  fond,  just  as  you  are,  of  podgy  old 
chests  with  brass  plates,  white  armchairs  with 
oval  backs,  and  crooked  legs,  fly-blown  glass 
lustres,  with  a  big  egg  of  lilac  tinsel  in  the 
centre — of  all  sorts  of  ancestral  furniture,  in 
fact.  But  I  can't  stand  seeing  it  all  continually  ; 
a  sort  of  agitated  dejection  (it  is  just  that)  takes 
possession  of  me.  In  the  room  where  I  have 
established  myself,  the  furniture  is  of  the  most 
ordinary,  home-made  description.  I  have  left, 
though,  in  the  corner,  a  long  narrow  set  of 
shelves,  on  which  there  is  an  old-fashioned  set 
of  blown  green  and  blue  glasses,  just  discernible 
through  the  dust.  And  I  have  had  hung  on  the 
wall  that  portrait  of  a  woman — you  remember, 
in  the  black  frame  ? — that  you  used  to  call  the 
portrait  of  Manon  Lescaut.  It  has  got  rather 
darker  in  these  nine  years;  but  the  eyes  have  the 
same  pensive,  sly,  and  tender  look,  the  lips  have 
the  same  capricious,  melancholy  smile,  and  the 
half-plucked  rose  falls  as  softly  as  ever  from  her 
slender  fingers.  I  am  greatly  amused  by  the 
blinds  in  my  room.  They  were  once  green, 
but  have  been  turned  yellow  by  the  sun  ;  on 
them  are  depicted,  in  dark  colours,  scenes 
from  d'Arlencourt's  Hermit.      On  one  curtain 

155 


FAUST 

the  hermit,  with  an  immense  beard,  goggle- 
eyes,  and  sandals  on  his  feet,  is  carrying  off  a 
young  lady  with  dishevelled  locks  to  the  moun- 
tains. On  another  one,  there  is  a  terrific  com- 
bat going  on  between  four  knights  wearing 
birettas,  and  with  puffs  on  their  shoulders  ;  one, 
much  foreshortened,  lies  slain — in  fact,  there 
are  pictures  of  all  sorts  of  horrors,  while  all 
about  there  is  such^unbrxiken^jjeace,  and  the 
blinds  tbemselves  throw  such  soft  light  on  the 
ceiling.  ...  A  sort  of  inward  calm  has  come 
upon  me  since  I  have  been  settled  here ;  one 
wants  to  do  nothing,  one  wants  to  see  no  one, 
one  looks  forward  to  nothing,  one  is  too  lazy 
for  thought,  but  not  too  lazy  for  musing ;  two 
different  things,  as  you  know  well.  Memories 
of  childhood,  at  first,  came  flooding  upon  me — 
wherever  I  went,  whatever  I  looked  at,  they 
surged  up  on  all  sides,  distinct,  to  the  smallest 
detail,  and,  as  it  were,  immovable,  in  their  clearly 
defined  outlines.  .  .  .  Then  these  memories 
were  succeeded  by  others,  then  .  .  .  then  I 
gradually  turned  away  from  the  past,  and  all 
that  was  left  was  a  sort  of  drowsy  heaviness  in 
my  heart.  Fancy  !  as  I  was  sitting  on  the  dike, 
under  a  willow,  I  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
burst  out  crying,  and  should  have  gone  on  cry- 
ing a  long  while,  in  spite  of  my  advanced  years, 
if  I  had  not  been  put  to  shame  by  a  passing 
peasant  woman,  who  stared  at  me  with  curiosity, 
then,  without  turning  her  face  towards  me,  gave 

156 


FAUST 

a  low  bow  from  the  waist,  and  passed  on.  I 
should  be  very  glad  to  remain  in  the  same  mood 
(I  shan't  do  any  more  crying,  of  course)  till  I 
go  away  from  here,  that  is,  till  September,  and 
should  be  very  sorry  if  any  of  my  neighbours 
should  take  it  into  his  head  to  call  on  me. 
However  there  is  no  danger,  I  fancy,  of  that ;  I 
have  no  near  neighbours  here.  You  will  under- 
stand me,  I  'm  sure ;  you  know  yourself,  by 
experience,  how  often  solitude  is  beneficial  .  .  . 
I  need  it  now  after  wanderings  of  all  sorts. 

But  I  shan't  be  dull.  I  have  brought  a  few 
books  with  me,  and  I  have  a  pretty  fair  library 
here.  Yesterday,  I  opened  all  the  bookcases, 
and  was  a  long  while  rummaging  about  among 
the  musty  books.  I  found  many  curious  things 
I  had  not  noticed  before :  Candide,  in  a  manu- 
script translation  of  somewhere  about  1770; 
newspapers  and  magazines  of  the  same  period  ; 
the  Triumphant  Cha7neleo7i  (that  is,  Mirabeau), 
le  Paysan  Perverti,  etc.  I  came  across  children's 
books,  my  own,  and  my  father's,  and  my  grand- 
mother's, and  even,  fancy,  my  great  grand- 
mother's ;  in  one  dilapidated  French  grammar 
in  a  particoloured  binding,  was  written  in  fat 
letters  :  '  Ce  livre  appartient  a  Mile  Eudoxie  de 
Lavrine,'  and  it  was  dated  1 741.  I  saw  books 
I  had  brought  at  different  times  from  abroad, 
among  others,  Goethe's  Faust.  You're  not 
aware,  perhaps,  that  there  was  a  time  when  I 
Vxi^^  Faust  by  heart  (the  first_part.  of  course) 
^  157 


FAUST 

word  for  word  ;  I  was  never  tired  of  reading  it. 
.  .  But  other  days,  other  dreams,  and  for  the 
last  nine  years,  it  has  so  happened,  that  I  have 
scarcely  had  a  Goethe  in  my  hand.  It  was 
with  an  indescribable  emotion  that  I  saw  the 
little  book  I  knew  so  well,  again  (a  poor  edition 
of  1828).  I  brought  it  away  with  me,  lay  down 
on  the  bed,  and  began  to  read.  H(5\v  all  that 
splendid  first  scene  affected  me  !  The  entrance 
of  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth,  the  words,  you 
remember — *on  the  tide  of  life,  in  the  whirl  of 
creation,'  stirred  a  long  unfamiliar  tremor  and 
shiver  of  ecstasy.  I  recalled  everything  :  Ber- 
lin, and  student  days,  and  Fraulein  Clara  Stick, 
and  Zeidelmann  in  the  role  of  Mephistopheles, 
and  the  music  of  Radzivil,  and  all  and  every- 
thing. ...  It  was  a  long  while  before  I  could 
get  to  sleep:  my  youth_rose  up  and  stood 
before  me  jjke  a  phantom  ;  it  ran  like  fire,  like 
poison  through  my  veins,  my  heart  leaped  and 
would  not  be  still,  something  plucked  at  its 
chords,  and  yearnings  began  surging  up.  .  .  . 

You  see  what  fantasies  your  friend  gives 
himself  up  to,  at  almost  forty,  when  he  sits  in 
solitude  in  his  solitary  little  house !  What  if 
any  one  could  have  peeped  at  me!  Well, 
what?  I  shouldn't  have  been  a  bit  ashamed 
of  myself.  To  be  ashamed  is  a  sign  of  youth, 
too  ;  and  I  have  begun  (do  you  know  how  ?) 
to  notice  that  I  'm  getting  old.  I  '11  tell  you 
how.  ^  1  try  in  these  days  to  make  as  much  as 

158 


FAUST 

I  can  of  my  happy  sensations,  and  to  make 
little  of  my  sad  ones,  and  in  the  days  of  my 
youth  2jdid_j]xst_the  .opposite^—  At  times,  one 
used  to  carry  about  one's  melancholy  as 
if  it  were  a  treasure,  and  be  ashamed  of  a 
cheerful  mood  .  .  .  But  for  all  that,  it  strikes 
me,  that  in  spite  of  all  my  experience  of  life, 
there  is  something  in  the  world,  friend 
Horatio,  which  I  have  not  experienced,  and 
that  'something'  almost  the  most  important. 

Oh,  what  have  I  worked  myself  up  to ! 
Farewell  for  the  present !  What  are  you  about 
in  Petersburg  ?  By  the  way ;  Savely,  my 
country  cook,  wishes  to  send  his  duty  to 
you.  He  too  is  older,  but  not  very  much  so, 
he  is  grown  rather  corpulent,  stouter  all  over. 
He  is  as  good  as  ever  at  chicken-soup,  with 
stewed  onions,  cheesecakes  with  goffered 
edges,  and  peagoose — peagoose  is  the  famous 
dish  of  the  steppes,  which  makes  your  tongue 
white  and  rough  for  twenty-four  hours  after. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  roasts  the  meat  as  he 
always  did,  so  that  you  can  hammer  on  the 
plate  with  it — hard  as  a  board.  But  I  must 
really  say,  good-bye  1     Yours,  P.  B. 


X59 


SECOND  LETTER 

From  the  SAME  to  the  SAME 

M Village, /2^«^  12,  1850. 

I  HAVE  rather  an  important  piece  of  news  to 
tell  you,  my  dear  friend.  Listen  !  Yesterday 
I  felt  disposed  for  a  walk  before  dinner — only 
not  in  the  garden ;  I  walked  along  the  road 
towards  the  town.  W^alking  rapidly,  quite 
aimlessly,  along  a  straight,  long  road  is  very 
pleasant.  You  feel  as  if  you  're  doing  some- 
thing, hurrying  somewhere.  I  look  up ;  a 
coach  is  coming  towards  me.  Surely  not  some 
one  to  see  me,  I  wondered  with  secret  terror  .  . . 
No  :  there  was  a  gentleman  with  moustaches  in 
the  carriage,  a  stranger  to  me.  I  felt  reassured. 
But  all  of  a  sudden,  when  he  got  abreast  with 
me,  this  gentleman  told  the  coachman  to  stop 
the  horses,  politely  raised  his  cap,  and  still 
more  politely  asked  me,  '  was  not  I '  .  ,  . 
mentioning  my  name.  I  too  came  to  a  stand- 
still, and  with  the  fortitude  of  a  prisoner 
brought  up  for  trial,  replied  that  I  was  myself; 
while  I  stared  like  a  sheep  at  the  gentleman 

160 


FAUST 

with  the  moustaches  and  said  to  myself — *  I  do 
believe  I  Ve  seen  him  somewhere  ! ' 

'You  don't  recognise  me?'  he  observed,  as 
he  got  out  of  the  coach. 

'  No,  I  don't.' 

*  But  I  knew  you  directly.' 
Explanations  followed ;  it  appeared  that  it 

was  Priemkov — do  you  remember? — a  fellow 
we  used  to  know  at  the  university.  '  Why,  is 
that  an  important  piece  of  news  ? '  you  are 
asking  yourself  at  this  instant,  my  dear  Semyon 
Nikolaitch.  *  Priemkov,  to  the  best  of  my  recol- 
lection, was  rather  a  dull  chap  ;  no  harm  in  him 
though,  and  not  a  fool.'  Just  so,  my  dear  boy ; 
but  hear  the  rest  of  our  conversation. 

*  I  was  delighted,'  says  he,  '  when  I  heard 
you  had  come  to  your  country-place,  into  our 
neighbourhood.  But  I  was  not  alone  in  that 
feeling.' 

*  Allow  me  to  ask,'  I  questioned:  'who  was 
so  kind  .  .  .* 

'  My  wife.' 

*  Your  wife  !  * 

*  Yes,  my  wife ;  she  is  an  old  acquaintance 
of  yours.' 

*  May  I  ask  what  was  your  wife's  name  ?  * 

*  Vera  Nikola^^^Jaa ;  she  was  an  Eltsov  .  .  .' 

'  Vera  Nikolaevna ! '  I  could  not  help  ex- 
claiming .  .  . 

This  it  is,  which  is  the  important  piece  of 
news  I  spoke  of  at  the  beginning  of  my  letter. 

i6i  L 


FAUST 

But  perhaps  you  don't  see  anything  impor- 
tant even  in  this  ...  I  shall  have  to  tell  you 
something  of  my  past  .  .  .  long  past,  life. 

When  we  both  left  the  university  in  183 — 
I  was  three-and-twenty.  You  went  into  the 
service ;  I  decided,  as  you  know,  to  go  to 
Berlin.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  in 
Berlin  before  October.  I  wanted  to  spend  the 
summer  in  Russia — in  the  country — to  have  a 
good  lazy  holiday  for  the  last  time ;  and  then 
to  set  to  work  in  earnest.  How  far  this  last 
project  was  carried  out,  there  is  no  need  to 
enlarge  upon  here  .  .  .  '  But  where  am  I  to 
spend  the  summer?'  I  asked  myself.  I  did 
not  want  to  go  to  my  own  place ;  my  father 
had  died  not  long  before,  I  had  no  near 
relations,  I  was  afraid  of  the  solitude  and 
dreariness  .  .  .  And  so  I  was  delighted  to 
receive  an  invitation  from  a  distant  cousin  to 
stay  at  his  country-place  in  T  .  .  .  province. 
He  was  a  well-to-do,  good-natured,  simple- 
hearted  man  ;  he  lived  in  style  as  a  country 
magnate,  and  had  a  palatial  country  house. 
I  went  to  stay  there.  My  cousin  had  a  large 
family ;  two  sons  and  five  daughters.  Besides 
them,  there  was  always  a  crowd  of  people  in 
his  house.  Guests  were  for  ever  arriving  ;  and 
yet  it  wasn't  jolly  at  all.  The  days  were  spent 
in  noisy  entertainments,  there  was  no  chance 
of  being  by  oneself.  Everything  was  done  in 
common,  every  one  tried  to  be  entertaining, 

163 


FAUST 

to  invent  some  amusement,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  day  every  one  was  fearfully  exhausted. 
There  was  something  vulgar  about  the  way 
we  lived.  I  was  already  beginning  to  look 
forward  to  getting  away,  and  was  only  waiting 
till  my  cousin's  birthday  festivities  were  over, 
when  on  the  very  day  of  those  festivities,  at 
the  ball,  I  saw  Vera  Nikolaevna  Eltsov — and  I 
stayed  on. 

She  was  at  that  time  sixteen.  She  was 
living  with  her  mother  on  a  little  estate  four 
miles  from  my  cousin's  place.  Her  father — a 
remarkable  man,  I  have  been  told — had  risen 
rapidly  to  the  grade  of  colonel,  and  would 
have  attained  further  distinctions,  but  he  died 
young,  accidentally  shot  by  a  friend  when  out 
shooting.  Vera  Nikolaevna  was  a  baby  at 
the  time  of  his  death.  Her  mother  too  was 
an  exceptional  woman ;  she  spoke  several 
languages,  and  was  very  well  informed.  She 
was  seven  or  eight  years  older  than  her  husband 
whom  she  had  married  for  love ;  he  had  run 
away  with  her  in  secret  from  her  father's  house. 
She  never  got  over  his  loss,  and,  till  the  day  of 
her  death  (I  heard  from  Priemkov  that  she  had 
died  soon  after  her  daughter's  marriage),  she 
never  wore  anything  but  black.  I  have  a  vivid 
recollection  of  her  face  :  it  was  expressive,  dark, 
with  thick  hair  beginning  to  turn  grey ;  large, 
severe,  lustreless  eyes,  and  a  straight,  fine  nose. 
Her  father — his   surname  was  Ladanov — had 

163 


FAUST 


-f- 


^^ 


r^ 


'^ 


lived  for  fifteen  years  in  Italy.  Vera  Niko- 
laevna's  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  simple 
Albanian  peasant  girl,  who,  the  day  after 
giving  birth  to  her  child,  was  killed  by  her 
betrothed  lover — a  Transteverino  peasant — 
from  whom  Ladanov  had  enticed  her  away. 
.  .  .  The  story  made  a  great  sensation  at  the 
time.  On  his  return  to  Russia,  Ladanov  never 
left  his  house,  nor  even  his  study ;  he  devoted 
himself  to  chemistry,  anatomy,  and  magical 
arts;  tried  to  discover  means  to  prolong 
human  life,  fancied  he  could  hold  intercourse 
with  spirits,  and  call  up  the  dead.  .  .  .  The 
neighbours  looked  upon  him  as  a  sorcerer. 
He  was  extremely  fond  of  his  daughter,  and 
taught  her  everything  himself:  but  he  never 
forgave  her  elopement  with  Eltsov,  never 
allowed  either  of  them  to  come  into  his 
presence,  predicted  a  life  of  sorrow  for  both 
of  them,  and  died  in  solitude.  When  Madame 
Eltsov  was  left  a  widow,  she  devoted  her  whole 
time  to  the  education  of  her  daughter,  and 
scarcely  saw  any  friends.  When  I  first  met 
Vera  Nikolaevna,  she  had — ^just  fancy — never 
been  in  a  town  in  her  life,  not  even  in  the 
town  of  her  district. 

Vera  Nikolaevna  was  not  like  the  common 

run  of  Russian  girls  ;  there  was  the  stamp  of 

•something   special    upon   her.       I    was   struck 

from   the    first   minute   by   the   extraordinary 

repose    of    all   her   movements   and   remarks. 

164 


FAUST 

She  seemed  free  from  any  sort  of  disturbance 
or  agitation  ;  she  answered  simply  and  intelli- 
gently, and  listened  attentively.  The  expres- 
sion of  her  face  was  sincere  and  truthful  as  a 
child's,  but  a  little  cold  and  immobile,  though 
not  dreamy.  She  was  rarely  gay,  and  not 
in  the  way  other  girls  are ;  the  serenity  of 
an  innocent  heart  shone  out  in  everything 
about  her,  and  cheered  one  more  than  any 
gaiety.  She  was  not  tall,  and  had  a  very  good 
figure,  rather  slender ;  she  had  soft,  regular 
features,  a  lovely  smooth  brow,  light  golden 
hair,  a  straight  nose,  like  her  mother's,  and 
rather  full  lips  ;  her  dark  grey  eyes  looked  out 
somewhat  too  directly  from  under  soft,  upward- 
turned  eyelashes.  Her  hands  were  small,  and 
not  very  pretty ;  one  never  sees  hands  like 
hers  on  people  of  talent  .  .  .  and,  as  a  fact, 
Vera  Nikolaevna  had  no  special  talents.  Her 
voice  rang  out  clear  as  a  child  of  seven's.  I 
was  presented  to  her  mother  at  my  cousin's 
ball,  and  a  few  days  later  I  called  on  them 
for  the  first  time. 

Madame  Eltsov  was  a  very  strange  woman, 
a  woman  of  character,  of  strong  will  and  con- 
centration. She  had  a  great  influence  on  me ; 
I  at  once  respected  her  and  feared  her.  Every- 
thing with  her  was  done  on  a  principle,  and 
she  had  educated  her  daughter  too  on  a 
principle,  though  she  did  not  interfere  with 
her    freedom.     Her    daughter   loved   her  and 

165 


FAUST 

trusted  her  blindly.  Madame  Eltsov  had  only 
to  give  her  a  book,  and  say — '  Don't  read  that 
page,'  she  would  prefer  to  skip  the  preceding 
page  as  well,  and  would  certainly  never  glance 
at  the  page  interdicted.  But  Madame  Eltsov 
too  had  her  idees  fixes ^  her  fads.  She  was 
mortally  afraid,  for  instance,  of  anything  that 
might  work  upon  the  imagination.  And  so 
her  daughter  reached  the  age  of  seventeen 
without  ever  having  read  a  novel  or  a  poem, 
while  in  Geography,  History,  and  even  Natural 
History,  she  would  often  put  me  to  shame, 
graduate  as  I  was,  and  a  graduate,  as  you 
know,  not  by  any  means  low  down  on  the 
list  either.  I  used  to  try  and  argue  with 
Madame  Eltsov  about  her  fad,  though  it  was 
difficult  to  draw  her  into  conversation ;  she 
was  very  silent.     She  simply  shook  her  head. 

'You  tell  me,'  she  said  at  last,  'that  reading 
poetry  is  both  useful  and  pleasant.  ...  I  con- 
sider one  must  make  one's  choice  early  in  life ; 
either  the  useful  or  the  pleasant,  and  abide  by 
it  once  for  all.  I,  too,  tried  at  one  time  to 
unite  the  two.  .  . .  That 's  impossible,  and  leads 
to  ruin  or  vulgarity.' 

Yes,  a  wonderful  being  she  was,  that  woman, 
an  upright,  proud  nature,  not  without  a  certain 
fanaticism  and  superstition  of  her  own.  *  I  am 
afpJH  of  liTp^  gVif^  said  to  me  one  day.  And 
really  she  was  afraid  of  it,  afraid  of  thosesecret 
forces  on  which  life  rests  and  which  rarely,  but 

i66     ■■ 


MUST 

SO  suddenly,  break  out.  Woe  to  him  who  is 
their  sport !  These  forces  had  shown  them- 
selves in  fearful  shape  for  Madame  Eltsov ; 
think  of  her  mother's  death,  her  husband's,  her 
father's.  .  .  .  Any  one  would  have  been  panic- 
stricken.  I  never  saw  her  smile.  She  had,  as 
it  were,  locked  herself  up  and  thrown  the  key 
into  the  water.  She  must  have  suffered  great 
grief  in  her  time,  and  had  never  shared  it  with 
any  one;  she  had  hidden  it  all  away  within 
herself.  She  had  so  thoroughly  trained  herself 
not  to  give  way  to  her  feelings  that  she  was  even 
ashamed  to  express  her  passionate  love  for  her 
daughter ;  she  never  once  kissed  her  in  my 
presence,  and  never  used  any  endearing  names, 
always  Vera.  I  remember  one  saying  of  hers  ; 
I  happened  to  say  to  her  that  all  of  us  modern 
people  were  half  broken  by  life.  *  It 's  no  good 
being  half  broken,'  she  observed;  'one  must 
be  broken  in  thoroughly  or  let  it  alone.  .  .  / 

Very  few  people  visited  Madame  Eltsov ; 
but  I  went  often  to  see  her.  I  was  secretly 
aware  that  she  looked  on  me  with  favour ;  and 
I  liked  Vera  Nikolaevna  very  much  indeed. 
We  used  to  talk  and  walk  together.  .  .  .  Her 
mother  was  no  check  upon  us ;  the  daughter 
did  not  like  to  be  away  from  her  mother,  and 
I,  for  my  part,  felt  no  craving  for  solitary  talks 
with  her.  .  .  .  Vera  Nikolaevna  had  a  strange 
habit  of  thinking  aloud ;  she  used  at  night  in 
her  sleep  to  talk  loudly  and  distinctly  about 

167 


FAUST 

what  had  impressed  her  during  the  day.  One 
day,  looking  at  me  attentively,  leaning  softly, 
as  her  way  was,  on  her  hand,  she  said,  '  It 
seems  to  me  that  B.  is  a  good  person,  but 
there's  no  relying  on  him.'  The  relations 
existing  between  us  were  of  the  friendliest  and 
most  tranquil ;  only  once  I  fancied  I  detected 
somewhere  far  off  in  the  very  depths  of  her 
clear  eyes  something  strange,  a  sort  of  soft- 
ness and  tenderness.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  I  was 
mistaken. 

Meanwhile  the  time  was  slipping  by,  and  it 
was  already  time  for  me  to  prepare  for  de- 
parture. But  still  I  put  it  off.  At  times,  when 
I  thought,  when  I  realised  that  soon  I  should 
see  no  more  of  this  sweet  girl  I  had  grown  so 
fond  of,  I  felt  sick  at  heart.  .  .  .  Berlin  began 
to  lose  its  attractive  force.  I  had  not  the 
courage  to  acknowledge  to  myself  what  was 
going  on  within  me,  and,  indeed,  I  didn't  un- 
^\y  derstand  what  was  taJdjQg,....pla£ej^r:;;3it_  was  as 
-''*  though  a  cloud  were  overhang^tag  my  soul. 
At  last  one  morning  everything  suddenly  be- 
came clear  to  me.  *  Why  seek  further,  what  is 
there  to  strive  towards?  Why,  I  shall  not 
attain  to  truth  in  any  case.  Isn't  it  better  to 
stay  here,  to  be  married  ?  '  And,  imagine,  the 
idea  of  marriage  had  no  terrors  for  me  in  those 
days.  On  the  contrary,  I  rejoiced  in  it.  More 
than  that ;  that  day  I  declared  my  intentions ; 
only  not  to  Vera  Nikolaevna,  as  one  would 

i68 


FAUST 

naturally  suppose,  but  to  Madame  Eltsov. 
The  old  lady  looked  at  me. 

'  No/  she  said ;  *  my  dear  boy,  go  to  Berlin, 
get  broken  in  thoroughly.  You're  a  good 
fellow  ;  but  it  *s  not  a  husband  like  you  that 's 
needed  for  Vera.* 

I  hung  my  head,  blushed,  and,  what  will 
very  likely  surprise  you  still  more,  inwardly 
agreed  with  Madame  Eltsov  on  the  spot.  A 
week  later  I  went  away,  and  since  then  I  have 
not  seen  her  nor  Vera  Nikolaevna. 

I  have  related  this  episode  briefly  because  I 
know  you  don't  care  for  anything  '  meandering.' 
When  I  got  to  Berlin  I  very  quickly  forgot 
Vera  Nikolaevna.  .  .  .  But  I  will  own  that 
hearing  of  her  so  unexpectedly  has  excited  me. 
I  am  impressed  by  the  idea  that  she  is  so  close, 
that  she  is  my  neighbour,  that  I  shall  see  her 
in  a  day  or  two.  The  past  seems  suddenly  to 
have  sprung  up  out  of  the  earth  before  my 
eyes,  and  to  have  rushed  down  upon  me. 
Priemkov  informed  me  that  he  was  coming  to 
call  upon  me  with  the  very  object  of  renewing 
our  old  acquaintance,  and  that  he  should  look 
forward  to  seeing  me  at  his  house  as  soon 
as  I  could  possibly  come.  He  told  me  he 
had  been  in  the  cavalry,  had  retired  with  the 
rank  of  lieutenant,  had  bought  an  estate 
about  six  miles  from  me,  and  was  intending 
to  devote  himself  to  its  management,  that 
he  had  had  three  children,  but  that  two  had 

169 


li-AUST 

died,  and  he  had  only  a  little  girl  of  five  sur- 
viving. 

'And  does  your  wife  remember  me?'  I 
inquired. 

'  Yes,  she  remembers  you,'  he  replied,  with 
some  slight  hesitation.  '  Of  course,  she  was  a 
child,  one  may  say,  in  those  days ;  but  her 
mother  always  spoke  very  highly  of  you,  and 
you  know  how  precious  every  word  of  her  poor 
mother's  is  to  her.' 

I  recalled  Madame  Eltsov's  words,  that  I 
was  not  suitable  for  her  Vera.  ...  *  I  suppose 
you  were  suitable,'  I  thought,  with  a  sidelong 
look  at  Priemkov.  He  spent  some  hours  with 
me.  He  is  a  very  nice,  dear,  good  fellow, 
speaks  so  modestly,  and  looks  at  me  so  good- 
naturedly.  One  can't  help  liking  him  .  .  .  but 
his  intellectual  powers  have  not  developed 
since  we  used  to  know  him.  I  shall  certainly 
go  and  see  him,  possibly  to-morrow.  I  am 
exceedingly  curious  to  see  how  Vera  Nikolaevna 
has  turned  out. 

You,  spiteful  fellow,  are  most  likely  laughing 
at  me  as  you  read  this,  sitting  at  your  directors' 
table.  But  I  shall  write  and  tell  you,  all  the 
same,  the  impression  she  makes  on  me.  Good- 
bye— till  my  next. — Yours,  P.  B. 


170 


THIRD  LETTER 

From  the  SAME  to  the  SAME 

M V\\A.k.G^,June  i6,  1850. 

Well,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  been  to  her 
house  ;  I  haye  seen  her.  First  of  all  I  must 
tell  you  one  astonishing  fact :  you  may  believe 
me  or  not  as  you  like,  but  she  has  scarcely 
changed  at  all  either  in  face  or  in  figure. 
When  she  came  to  meet  me,  I  almost  cried 
out  in  amazement ;  it  was  simply  a  little  girl 
of  seventeen !  Only  her  eyes  are  not  a  little 
girl's ;  but  then  her  eyes  were  never  like  a 
child's,  even  in  her  young  days, — they  were 
too  clear.  But  the  same  composure,  the  same 
serenity,  the  same  voice,  not  one  line  on  her 
brow,  as  though  she  had  been  laid  in  the  snow 
all  these  years.  And  she 's  twenty-eight  now, 
and  has  had  three  children.  ...  It's  incom- 
prehensible !  Don't  imagine,  please,  that  I  had 
some  preconceived  preference,  and  so  am 
exaggerating ;  quite  the  other  way ;  I  don't 
like  this  absence  of  change  in  her  a  bit. 

A  woman  of  eight-and-twenty,  a  wife  and  a 

171 


FAUST 

mother,  ought  not  to  be  like  a  little  girl ;  she 
should  have  gained  something  from  life.  She 
gave  me  a  very  cordial  welcome  ;  but  Priemkov 
was  simply  overjoyed  at  my  arrival ;  the  dear 
fellow  seems  on  the  look-out  for  some  one  to 
make  much  of.  Their  house  is  very  cosy  and 
clean.  Vera  Nikolaevna  was  dressed,  too,  like 
a  girl ;  all  in  white,  with  a  blue  sash,  and  a 
slender  gold  chain  on  her  neck.  Her  daughter 
is  very  sweet  and  not  at  all  like  her.  She 
reminds  one  of  her  grandmother.  In  the 
drawing-room,  just  over  a  sofa,  there  hangs  a 
portrait  of  that  strange  woman,  a  striking 
likeness.  It  caught  my  eye  directly  I  went 
into  the  room.  It  seemed  as  though  she  were 
gazing  sternly  and  earnestly  at  me.  We  sat 
down,  spoke  of  old  times,  and  by  degrees  got 
into  conversation.  I  could  not  help  continually 
glancing  at  the  gloomy  portrait  of  Madame 
Eltsov.  Vera  Nikolaevna  was  sitting  just 
under  it ;  it  is  her  favourite  place.  Imagine 
my  amazement :  Vera  Nikolaevna  has  never 
yet  read  a  single  novel,  a  single  poem — in  fact, 
not  a  single  invented  work,  as  she  expresses 
it!  This  incomprehensible  indifference  to  the 
highest  pleasures  of  the  intellect  irritated  me. 
In  a  woman  of  intelligence,  and  as  far  as  I 
can  judge,  of  sensibility,  it 's  simply  unpar- 
donable. 

*  What  ?  do  you  make  it  a  principle/  I  asked, 
*  never  to  read  books  of  that  sort  ?  ' 

172 


FAUST 

*  I  have  never  happened  to,'  she  answered ;  *  I 
haven't  had  time  ! ' 

*  Not  time !  You  surprise  me !  I  should 
have  thought,'  I  went  on,  addressing  Priemkov, 
*  you  would  have  interested  your  wife  in  poetry/ 

*  I  should  have  been  delighted '  Priem- 
kov was  beginning,  but  Vera  Nikolaevna  in- 
terrupted him — 

*  Don't  pretend ;  you  Ve  no  great  love  for 
poetry  yourself.' 

*  Poetry  ;  well,  no,'  he  began  ;  *  I  'm  not  very 
fond  of  it ;  but  novels,  now.  .  .  .' 

*But  what  do  you  do,  how  do  you  spend 
your  evenings  ? '  I  queried ;  '  do  you  play 
cards  ? ' 

*  We  sometimes  play,'  she  answered  ;  *  but 
there's  always  plenty  to  do.  We  read,  too; 
there  are  good  books  to  read  besides  poetry.' 

*  Why  are  you  so  set  against  poetry  ? ' 

*  I  'm  not  set  against  it ;  I  have  been  used  to        /<  .^  i' 


v<A 


not  reading  these  invented  works  from  a  child,    -j^^'       ^'t 
That  was  my  mother's  wish,  and  the  longer  I    ,  ht"'^ 
live  the  more  I  am  convinced  that  everything  ^'f     * 
my  mother  did,  everything  she  said,  was  right, 
sacredly  right.' 

'Well,  as  you  will,  but  I  can't  agree  with 
you ;  I  am  certain  you  are  depriving  yourself 
quite  needlessly  of  the  purest,  the  most  legiti- 
mate pleasure.  Why,  you  're  not  opposed  to 
music  and  painting,  I  suppose  ;  why  be  opposed 
to  poetry  ? ' 

173 


FAUST 

'  I  *m  not  opposed  to  it ;  I  have  never  got  to 
know  anything  of  it — that 's  all.' 

*  Well,  then,  I  will  see  to  that !  Your  mother 
did  not,  I  suppose,  wish  to  prevent  your 
knowing  anything  of  the  works  of  creative, 
poetic  art  all  your  life  ?  * 

'  No ;  when  I  was  married,  my  mother 
removed  every  restriction ;  it  never  occurred 
to  me  to  read — what  did  you  call  them  ?  .  .  . 
well,  anyway,  to  read  novels/ 

I  listened  to  Vera  Nikolaevna  in  astonish- 
ment.    I  had  not  expected  this. 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  serene  glance. 
Birds  look  so  when  they  are  not  fright- 
ened. 

*  I  '11  bring  you  a  book  ! '  I  cried.  (I  thought 
of  Faust,  which  I  had  just  been  reading.) 

Vera  Nikolaevna  gave  a  gentle  sigh. 

*  It it    won't    be    Georges — Sand  ? '    she 

questioned  with  some  timidity. 

*  Ah  !  then  you  've  heard  of  her  ?  Well,  if 
it  were,  where 's  the  harm  ?  .  .  .  No,  I  '11  bring 
you  another  author.  You've  not  forgotten 
German,  have  you?' 

'No.' 

*She  speaks  it  like  a  German/  put  in 
Priemkov. 

*Well,  that's  splendid!  I  will  bring  you — 
but  there,  you  shall  see  what  a  wonderful  thing 
I  will  bring  you.' 

*Very  good,  we  shall  see.     But  now  let  us 

174 


FAUST 

go  into  the  garden,  or  there  '11  be  no  keeping 
Natasha  still.' 

She  put  on  a  round  straw  hat,  a  child's  hat, 
just  such  a  one  as  her  daughter  was  wearing, 
only  a  little  larger,  and  we  went  into  the  garden, 
I  walked  beside  her.  In  the  fresh  air,  in  the 
shade  of  the  tall  limes,  I  thought  her  face 
looked  sweeter  than  ever,  especially  when  she 
turned  a  little  and  threw  back  her  head  so  as 
to  look  up  at  me  from  under  the  brim  of  her 
hat.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Priemkov  walking 
behind  us,  and  the  little  girl  skipping  about  in 
front  of  us,  I  could  really  have  fancied  I  was 
three-and-twenty,  instead  of  thirty-five  ;  and  -*  "^ 
that  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  starting  for 
Berlin,  especially  as  the  garden  we  were  walk- 
ing in  was  very  much  like  the  garden  in  Madame 
Eltsov's  estate.  I  could  not  help  expressing  my 
feelings  to  Vera  Nikolaevna. 

*  Every  one  tells  me  that  I  am  very  little 
changed  externally,'  she  answered,  'though 
indeed  I  have  remained  just  the  same  in- 
wardly too.' 

We  came  up  to  a  little  Chinese  summer-house. 

*  We  had  no  summer-house  like  this  at  Osin- 
ovka,'  she  said ;  '  but  you  mustn't  mind  its  being 
so  tumbledown  and  discoloured  :  it 's  very  nice 
and  cool  inside.' 

We  went  into  the  house.     I  looked  round. 
'  I  tell  you  what.  Vera  Nikolaevna,'  I  observed, 
'you  let  them  bring  a  table  and  some  chairs  in 

175 


<^ 


FAUST 

here.  Here  it  is  really  delicious.  I  will  read 
you  here  Goethe's  Faust — that's  the  thing 
I  am  going  to  read  you.' 

'Yes,  there  are  no  flies  here,'  she  observed 
simply.     *When  will  you  come?* 

*  The  day  after  to-morrow.' 

*  Very  well,'  she  answered.    *  I  will  arrange  it.' 
Natasha,  who  had  come  into  the  summer- 
house   with   us,  suddenly   gave   a   shriek   and 
jumped  back,  quite  pale. 

'What  is  it?'  inquired  Vera  Nikolaevna. 

'  O  mammy,'  said  the  little  girl,  pointing  into 
the  corner,  *  look,  what  a  dreadful  spider ! ' 

Vera  Nikolaevna  looked  into  the  corner :  a 
fat  mottled  spider  was  crawling  slowly  along 
the  wall. 

'What  is  there  to  fear  in  that?'  she  said. 
'  It  won't  bite,  look.' 

And  before  I  had  time  to  stop  her,  she  took 
up  the  hideous  insect,  let  it  run  over  her  hand, 
and  threw  it  away. 

'  Well,  you  are  brave  ! '  I  cried. 
'J         '  Where  is  the  bravery  in  that  ?     It  wasn't  a 
j\     venomous  spider.' 

y,  "s^  'One  can  see  you  are  as  well  up  in  Natural 
History  as  ever,  but  I  couldn't  have  held  it  in 
my  hand.' 

'There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of!'  repeated 
Vera  Nikolaevna. 
V  Natasha  looked  at  us  both  in  silence,  and 

■^  ,,  laughed. 

^>^  176 


FAUST 

*  How  like  your  mother  she  is  ! '  I  remarked. 

*Yes,'  rejoined  Vera  Nikolaevna  with  a  smile 
of  pleasure,  'it  is  a  great  happiness  to  me.  God 
grant  she  may  be  like  her,  not  in  face  only ! ' 

We  were  called  in  to  dinner,  and  after  dinner 
I  went  away. 

N.B. — The  dinner  was  very  good  and  well- 
cooked,  an  observation  in  parenthesis  for  you, 
you  gourmand ! 

To-morrow  I  shall  take  them  Faust.  I  'm 
afraid  old  Goethe  and  I  may  not  come  off 
very  well.  I  will  write  and  tell  you  all  about 
it  most  exactly. 

Well,  and  what  do  you  think  of  all  these 
proceedings  ?  No  doubt,  that  she  has  made 
a  great  impression  on  me,  that  I  'm  on  the 
point  of  falling  in  love,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  .'* 
Rubbish,  my  dear  boy!  There 's  a  limit  to  every- 
thing. I  Ve  been  fool  enough.  No  more  !  One 
can't  begin  life  over  again  at  my  age.  Besides, 
I  never  did  care  for  women  of  that  sort.  .  .  , 
Nice  sort  of  women  I  did  care  for,  if  you  come 

to  that ! ! 

*  I  shudder — my  heart  is  sick — 
I  am  ashamed  of  my  idols.' 

Any  way,  I  am  very  glad  of  such  neighbours, 
glad  of  the  opportunity  of  seeing  something  of 
an  intelligent,  simple,  bright  creature.  And  as 
to  what  comes  of  it  later  on,  you  shall  hear  in 
due  time. — Yours,  P.  B. 

177  M 


FOURTH  LETTER 

From  the  SAME  to  the  SAME 

M YiiA.kOY.^Jtme  20,  1850. 

The  reading  took  place  yesterday,  dear  friend, 
and  here  follows  the  manner  thereof.  First  of 
all,  I  hasten  to  tell  you  :  a  success  quite  beyond 
all  expectation — success,  in  fact,  is  not  the  word. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  '11  tell  you.  I  arrived  to  dinner. 
We  sat  down  a  party  of  six  to  dinner :  she, 
Priemkov,  their  little  girl,  the  governess  (an 
uninteresting  colourless  figure),  I,  and  an  old 
German  in  a  short  cinnamon-coloured  frock-coat, 
very  clean,  well-shaved  and  brushed  ;  he  had  the 
meekest,  most  honest  face,  and  a  toothless 
smile,  and  smelled  of  coffee  mixed  with  chicory 
...  all  old  Germans  have  that  peculiar  odour 
about  them.  I  was  introduced  to  him  ;  he  was 
one  Schimmel,  a  German  tutor,  living  with 
the  princes  H.,  neighbours  of  the  Priemkovs. 
Vera  Nikolaevna,  it  appeared,  had  a  liking  for 
him,  and  had  invited  him  to  be  present  at  the 
reading.  We  dined  late,  and  sat  a  long  while 
at  table,  and   afterwards  went   a  walk.     The 

178 


FAUST 

weather  was  exquisite.  In  the  morning  there 
had  been  rain  and  a  blustering  wind,  but 
towards  evening  all  was  calm  again.  We 
came  out  on  to  an  open  meadow.  Directly 
over  the  meadow  a  great  (rosy  cloud  poised 
lightly,  high  up  in  the  sky  ;  streaks  of  grey 
stretched  like  smoke  over  it ;  on  its  very  edge, 
continually  peeping  out  and  vanishing  again, 
quivered  a  little  star,  while  a  little  further  off 
the  crescent  of  the  moon  shone  white  upon 
a  background  of  azure,  faintly  flushed  with 
red.  I  drew  Vera  Nikolaevna's  attention  to 
the  cloud. 

'  Yes,'  she  said,  *  that  is  lovely ;  but  look  in 
this  direction.'  I  looked  round.  An  immense 
dark-blu6  storm-cloud  rose  up,  hiding  the  setting 
sun  ;  it  reared  a  crest  like  a  thick  sheaf  flung 
upwards  against  the  sky ;  it  was  surrounded 
by  a  bright  rim  of  menacing  purple,  which 
in  one  place,  in  the  very  middle,  broke  right 
through  its  mighty  mass,  like  fire  from  a-lujrn- 
ing  cr_ate£.  .  .  . 

*  There  '11  be  a  storm,'  remarked  Priemkov. 

But  I  am  wandering  from  the  main  point. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  in  my  last  letter  that 
when  I  got  home  from  the  Priemkovs'  I  felt 
sorry  I  had  mentioned  Faust  \  Schiller  would 
have  been  a  great  deal  better  for  the  first  time, 
if  it  was  to  be  something  German.  I  felt 
especially  afraid  of  the  first  scenes,  before  the 
meeting  with  Gretchen.     I  was  not  quite  easy 

179 


FAUST 

about  Mephlstopheles  either.  But  I  was  under 
the  spell  of  Faust,  and  there  was  nothing  else 
I  could  have  read  with  zest.  It  was  quite  dark 
when  we  went  into  the  summer-house ;  it  had 
been  made  ready  for  us  the  day  before.  Just 
opposite  the  door,  before  a  little  sofa,  stood  a 
round  table  covered  with  a  cloth  ;  easy-chairs 
and  seats  were  placed  round  it ;  there  was  a 
lamp  alight  on  the  table.  I  sat  down  on  the  little 
sofa,  and  took  out  the  book.  Vera  Nikolaevna 
settled  herself  in  an  easy-chair,  a  little  way  off, 
*  \\^  close  to  the  door.  In  the  darkness,  through 
n/iw*-  the  door,  a  green  branch  of  acacia  stood  out 

in  the  lamplight,  swaying  lightly ;  from  time 
to  time  a  flood  of  night  air  flowed  into  the 
room.  Priemkov  sat  near  me  at  the  table,  the 
German  beside  him.  The  governess  had  re- 
mained in  the  house  with  Natasha.  I  made 
a  brief,  introductory  speech.  I  touched  on  the 
old  legend  of  doctor  Faust,  the  significance  of 
Mephlstopheles,  and  Goethe  himself,  and  asked 
them  to  stop  me  if  anything  struck  them  as 
obscure.  Then  I  cleared  my  throat.  .  .  . 
Priemkov  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  have  some 
sugar  water,  and  one  could  perceive  that  he 
was  very  well  satisfied  with  himself  for  having 
put  this  question  to  me.  I  refused.  Profound 
silence  reigned.  I  began  to  read,  without  raising 
my  eyes.  I  felt  ill  at  ease ;  my  heart  beat, 
and  my  voice   shook.     The  first  exclamation 

of  sympathy  came  from  the  German,  and  he 

1 80 


FAUST 

was  the  only  one  to  break  the  silence  all 
the  while  I  was  reading.  ...  *  Wonderful ! 
sublime ! '  he  repeated,  adding  now  and  then, 
'  Ah  !  that 's  profound.'  Priemkov,  as  far  as  I 
could  observe,  was  bored ;  he  did  not  know 
German  very  well,  and  had  himself  admitted 
he  did  not  care  for  poetry !  .  .  .  Well,  it  was 
his  own  doing  !  I  had  wanted  to  hint  at  dinner 
that  his  company  could  be  dispensed  with  at 
the  reading,  but  I  felt  a  delicacy  about  saying 
so.  Vera  Nikolaevna  did  not  stir  ;  twice  I  stole 
a  glance  at  her.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  directly 
and  intently  upon  me ;  her  face  struck  me  as 
pale.  After  the  first  meeting  of  Faust  with 
Gretchen  she  bent  forward  in  her  low  chair, 
clasped  her  hands,  and  remained  motionless  in 
that  position  till  the  end.  I  felt  that  Priemkov 
was  thoroughly  sick  of  it,  and  at  first  that  de- 
pressed me,  but  gradually  I  forgot  him,  warmed 
up,  and  read  with  fire,  with  enthusiasm.  ...  I 
was  reading  for  Vera  Nikolaevna  alone  ;  an 
inner  voice  told  me  that  Faust  was  affect- 
ing her.  When  I  finished  (the  intermezzo  I 
omitted  :  that  bit  belongs  in  style  to  the  second 
part,  and  I  skipped  part,  too,  of  the  *  Night 
on  the  Brocken')  .  .  .  when  I  finished,  when 
that  last  '  Heinrich ! '  was  heard,  the  German 
with  much  feeling  commented — *  My  God  !  how 
splendid  ! '  Priemkov,  apparently  overjoyed 
(poor  chap !),  leaped  up,  gave  a  sigh,  and  began 
thanking  me  for  the  treat  I  had  given  them. 

i8i 


FAUST 


I 


• . .  But  I  made  him  no  reply ;  I  looked  towards 
Vera  Nikolaevna.  ...  I  wanted  to  hear  what 
she  would  say.  She  got  up,  walked  irresolutely 
towards  the  door,  stood  a  moment  in  the  door- 
way, and  softly  went  out  into  the  garden.  I 
rushed  after  her.  She  was  already  some  paces 
off;  her  dress  was  just  visible,  a  white  patch  in 
the  thick  shadow. 

'  Well  ? '  I  called—^  didn't  you  like  it  ? ' 

She  stopped. 

*  Can  you  leave  me  that  book  ? '  I  heard  her 
voice  saying. 

'  I  will  present  it  you.  Vera  Nikolaevna,  if 
you  care  to  have  it.' 

*  Thank  you  ! '  she  answered,  and  disappeared. 
Priemkov  and  the  German  came  up  to  me. 

*  How   wonderfully   warm   it    is ! '   observed     ' 
Priemkov ;  '  it 's  positively  stifling.     But  where 
has  my  wife  gone  ?  * 

*  Home,  I  think,'  I  answered. 

*  I  suppose  it  will  soon  be  time  for  supper, 
he  rejoined.  'You  read  splendidly,' he  added, 
after  a  short  pause. 

'Vera  Nikolaevna  liked  Faust,  I  think/ 
said  I. 

*  No  doubt  of  it ! '  cried  Priemkov. 

*  Oh,  of  course  ! '  chimed  in  Schimmel. 
We  went  into  the  house. 

*  Where 's  your  mistress  ? '  Priemkov  inquired 
of  a  maid  who  happened  to  meet  us. 

*  She  has  gone  to  her  bedroom.' 

182 


.1 


FAUST 

Priemkov  went  off  to  her  bedroom. 

I  went  out  on  to  the  terrace  with  Schimmel. 
The  old  man  raised  his  eyes  towards  the  sky. 

'  How  many  stars  ! '  he  said  slowly,  taking  a 
pinch  of  snuff ;  '  and  all  are  worlds,'  he  added, 
and  he  took  another  pinch. 

I  did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  answer  him, 
and  simply  gazed  upwards  in  silence.  A  secret 
uncertainty  weighed  upon  my  heart.  .  .  .  The 
stars,  I  fancied,  looked  down  seriously  at  us. 
Five  minutes  later  Priemkov  appeared  and 
called  us  into  the  dining-room.  Vera  Niko- 
laevna  came  in  soon  after.     We  sat  down. 

*  Look  at  Verotchka,'  Priemkov  said  to  me. 
I  glanced  at  her. 

*  Well  ?  don't  you  notice  anything  ?' 

I  certainly  did  notice  a  change  in  her  face, 
but  I  answered,  I  don't  know  why — 

*  No,  nothing.' 

*  Her  eyes  are  red,'  Priemkov  went  on. 
I  was  silent. 

*  Only  fancy !  I  went  upstairs  to  her  and 
found  her  crying.  It 's  a  long  while  since  such 
a  thing  has  happened  to  her.  I  can  tell  you 
the  last  time  she  cried  ;  it  was  when  our  Sasha 
died.  You  see  what  you  have  done  with  your 
Faust ! '  he  added,  with  a  smile. 

'  So  you  see  now.  Vera  Nikolaevna,'  I  began, 
'  that  I  was  right  when ' 

*  I  did  not  expect  this,'  she  interrupted  me  ; 
*  but  God  knows  whether  you  are  right.     Per- 

183 


FAUST 

haps   that   was    the  very   reason   my   mother 
forbade  my  reading  such  books, — she  knew ' 

Vera  Nikolaevna  stopped. 

'  What  did  she  know  ? '  I  asked.     *  Tell  me.' 

*  What  for  ?  I  'm  ashamed  of  myself,  as  it  is  ; 
what  did  I  cry  for  ?  But  we  '11  talk  about  it 
another  time.  There  was  a  great  deal  I  did 
not  quite  understand.' 

'Why  didn't  you  stop  me?' 

*  I  understood  all  the  words,  and  the  meaning 
of  them,  but ' 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  and  looked 
away  dreamily.  At  that  instant  there  came 
from  the  garden  the  sound  of  rustling  leaves, 
suddenly  fluttering  in  the  rising  wind.  Vera 
Nikolaevna  started  and  looked  round  towards 
the  open  window. 

*  I  told  you  there  would  be  a  storm ! '  cried 
Priemkov.  '  But  what  made  you  start  like  that, 
Verotchka  ? ' 

She  glanced  at  him  without  speaking.  A 
faint,  far-off  flash  of  lightning  threw  a  mysteri- 
ous light  on  her  motionless  face. 

*  It 's  all  due  to  your  Faust,'  Priemkov  went 
on.  'After  supper  we  must  all  go  to  by-by. 
.  .  .  Mustn't  we,  Herr  Schimmel  ? ' 

'  After  intellectual  enjoyment  physical  repose 
is  as  grateful  as  it  is  beneficial,'  responded  the 
kind-hearted  German,  and  he  drank  a  wine- 
glass of  vodka. 

Immediately  after  supper  we  separated.     As 

184 


FAUST 

I  said  good-night  to  Vera  Nikolaevna  I  pressed 
her  hand  ;  her  hand  was  cold.  I  went  up  to 
the  room  assigned  to  me,  and  stood  a  long 
while  at  the  window  before  I  undressed  and 
got  into  bed.  Priemkov's  prediction  was  ful- 
filled ;  the  storm  came  close,  and  broke.  I 
listened  to  the  roar  of  the  wind,  the  patter  and 
splash  of  the  rain,  and  watched  how  the  church, 
built  close  by,  above  the  lake,  at  each  flash  of 
lightning  stood  out,  at  one  moment  black 
against  a  background  of  white,  at  the  next 
white  against  a  background  of  black,  and  then 
was  swallowed  up  ~m  the  darkness  again.  .  .  . 
But  my  thoughts  were  far  away.  I  kept 
thinking  of  Vera  Nikolaevna,  of  what  she 
would  say  to  me  when  she  had  read  Faust 
herself,  I  thought  of  her  tears,  remembered 
how  she  had  listened.  .  .  . 

The  storm  had  long  passed  away,  the  stars 
came  out,  all  was  hushed  around.  Some  bird 
I  did  not  know  sang  different  notes,  several 
times  in  succession  repeating  the  same  phrase. 
Its  clear,  solitary  voice  rang  out  strangely  in 
the  deep  stillness  ;  and  still  I  did  not  go  to 
bed.  .  ,  . 

Next  morning,  earlier  than  all  the  rest,  I 
was  down  in  the  drawing-room.  I  stood  before 
the  portrait  of  Madame  Eltsov.  '  Aha,'  I 
thought,  with  a  secret  feeling  of  ironical  tri- 
umph, *  after  all,  I  have  read  your  daughter  a 
forbidden  book  ! '     All  at  once  I  fancied — you 

185 


FAUST 

have  most  likely  noticed  that  eyes  en  face 
always  seem  fixed  straight  on  any  one  looking 
at  a  picture — but  this  time  I  positively  fancied 
the  old  lady  moved  them  with  a  reproachful 
look  on  me, 

I  turned  round,  went  to  the  window,  and 
caught  sight  of  Vera  Nikolaevna.  With  a 
parasol  on  her  shoulder  and  a  light  white 
kerchief  on  her  head,  she  was  walking  about 
the  garden.  I  went  out  at  once  and  said  good- 
morning  to  her. 

*  I  didn't  sleep  all  night,'  she  said ;  *  my  head 
aches  ;  I  came  out  into  the  air — it  may  go  off.' 

*Can  that  be  the  result  of  yesterday's 
reading?'  I  asked. 

*  Of  course  ;  I  am  not  used  to  it.  There  are 
things  in  your  book  I  can't  get  out  of  my 
mind ;  I  feel  as  though  they  were  simply 
turning  my  head,'  she  added,  putting  her  hand 
to  her  forehead. 

*  That 's  splendid,'  I  commented  ;  '  but  I  tell 
you  what  I  don't  like — I  'm  afraid  this  sleep- 
lessness and  headache  may  turn  you  against 
reading  such  things.' 

'  You  think  so  ?  *  she  responded,  and  she 
picked  a  sprig  of  wild  jasmine  as  she  passed. 
*  God  knows !  I  fancy  if  one  has  once  entered 
on  that  path,  there  is  no  turning  back.' 

She  suddenly  flung  away  the  spray. 

*  Come,  let  us  sit  down  in  this  arbour,'  she 
went  on  ;  *  and  please,  until  I  talk  of  it  of  my 

1 86 


FAUST 

own  accord,  don't  remind  me — of  that  book.' 
(She  seemed  afraid  to  utter  the  name  Faust.) 
We  went  into  the  arbour  and  sat  down. 

*  I  won't  talk  to  you  about  Faust'  I  began ; 
*  but  you  will  let  me  congratulate  you  and  tell 
you  that  I  envy  you.' 

'  You  envy  me  ? ' 

*  Yes ;  you,  as  I  know  you  now,  with  your 
soul,  have  such  delights  awaiting  you  !  There 
are  great  poets  besides  Goethe  ;  Shakespeare, 
Schiller — and,  indeed,  our  own  Pushkin,  and 
you  must  get  to  know  him  too.' 

She  did  not  speak,  and  drew  in  the  sand 
with  her  parasol. 

O,  my  friend,  Semyon  Nikolaitch  !  if  you 
could  have  seen  how  sweet  she  was  at  that 
instant ;  pale  almost  to  transparency,  stooping 
forward  a  little,  weary,  inwardly  perturbed — and 
yet  serene  as  the  sky !  I  talked,  talked  a  long 
while,  then  ceased,  and  sat  in  silence  watching 
her.  .  .  .  She  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  and  went 
on  drawing  with  her  parasol  and  rubbing  it  out 
again.  Suddenly  we  heard  quick,  childish  steps ; 
Natasha  ran  into  the  arbour.  Vera  Nikolaevna 
drew  herself  up,  rose,  and  to  my  surprise  she 
embraced  her  daughter  with  a  sort  of  passionate 
tenderness.  .  .  .  That  was  not  one  of  her  ways. 
Then  Priemkov  made  his  appearance.  Schim- 
mel,  that  grey-haired  but  punctual  innocent, 
had  left  before  daybreak  so  as  not  to  miss  a 
lesson.     We  went  in  to  morning  tea. 

187 


FAUST 

But  I  am  tired  ;  it's  high  time  to  finish  this 
letter.  It's  sure  to  strike  you  as  foolish  and 
confused.  I  feel  confused  myself.  I  'm  not 
myself.  I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter  with 
me.  I  am  continually  haunted  by  a  little  room 
with  bare  walls,  a  lamp,  an  open  door,  the 
fragrance  and  freshness  of  the  night,  and  there, 
near  the  door,  an  intent  youthful  face,  light 
white  garments.  ...  I  understand  now  why  I 
wanted  to  marry  her :  I  was  not  so  stupid,  it 
seems,  before  my  stay  in  Berlin  as  I  had 
hitherto  supposed.  Yes,  Semyon  Nikolaitch, 
your  friend  is  in  a  curious  frame  of  mind.  All 
this  I  know  will  pass  off  .  .  .  and  if  it  doesn't 
pass  off, — well,  what  then  ?  it  won't  pass  off, 
and  that 's  all.  But  any  way  I  am  well  satisfied 
with  myself ;  in  the  first  place,  I  have  spent  an 
exquisite  evening ;  and  secondly,  if  I  have 
awakened  that  soul,  who  can  blame  me  ?  Old 
Madame  Eltsov  is  nailed  up  on  the  wall,  and 
must  hold  her  peace.  The  old  thing!  ...  I 
don't  know  all  the  details  of  her  life ;  but  I 
know  she  ran  away  from  her  father's  house ; 
she  was  not_bgjf  Italian  for  nothing,  it  seems. 
She  wanted  to  keep  her  daughter  secure  .  .  . 
we  shall  see. 

I  must  put  down  my  pen.  You,  jeering 
person,  pray  think  what  you  like  of  me,  only 
don't  jeer  at  me  in  writing.  You  and  I  are  old 
friends,  and  ought  to  spare  each  other.  Good- 
bye !— Yours,  P.  B. 

i88 


FIFTH  LETTER 

From  the  SAME  to  the  SAME 

M Village, /z^/k  26,  1850.        V 

It  's  a  long  time  since  I  wrote  to  you,  dear 
Semyon  Nicolaitch ;  more  than  a  month,  I 
think.  I  had  enough  to  write  about  but  I  was 
overcome  by  laziness.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
have  hardly  thought  of  you  all  this  time.  But 
from  your  last  letter  to  me  I  gather  that  you 
are  drawing  conclusions  in  regard  to  me,  which 
are  unjust,  that  is  to  say,  not  altogether  just. 
You  imagine  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  Vera 
(I  feel  it  awkward,  somehow,  to  call  her  Vera 
Nikolaevna)  ;  you  are  wrong.  Of  course  I  see 
her  often,  I  like  her  extremely  .  .  .  indeed, 
who  wouldn't  like  her?.  I  should  like  to  see 
you  in  my  place.  She  's  an  exquisite  creature  ! 
Rapid  intuition,  together  with  the  inexperience 
of  a  child,  clear  common-sense,  and  an  innate 
feeling  for  beauty,  a  continual  striving  towards 
the  true  and  the  lofty,  and  a  comprehension 
of  everything,  even  of  the  vicious,  even  of 
the  ridiculous,  a  soft  womanly  charm  brooding 

189 


FAUST 

over  all  this  like  an  angel's  white  wings  .  .  . 
But  what 's  the  use  of  words !  We  have  read 
a  great  deal,  we  have  talked  a  great  deal 
together  during  this  month.  Reading  with 
her  is  a  delight  such  as  I  had  never  experi- 
enced before.  You  seem  to  be  discovering  new 
worlds.  She  never  goes  into  ecstasies  over 
anything  ;  anything  boisterous  is  distasteful  to 
her ;  she  is  softly  radiant  all  over  when  she 
likes  anything,  and  her  face  wears  such  a 
noble  and  good — yes,  good  expression.  From 
her  earliest  childhood  Vera  has  not  known 
what  deceit  was ;  she  is  accustomed  to  truth, 
it  is  the  breath  of  her  being,  and  so  in  poetry 
too,  only  what  is  true  strikes  her  as  natural ; 
at  once,  without  effort  or  difficulty,  she  recog- 
nises it  as  a  familiar  face  ...  a  great  privilege 
and  happiness.  One  must  give  her  mother 
credit  for  it.  How  many  times  have  I  thought, 
as  I  watched  Vera — yes,  Goethe  was  right, 
'  the  good  even  in  their  obscure  striving  feel 
always  where  the  true  path  lies.'  There  is 
only  one  thing  annoying — her  husband  is 
always  about  the  place.  (Please  don't  laugh 
a  senseless  guffaw,  don't  sully  our  pure  friend- 
ship, even  in  thought).  He  is  about  as  capable 
of  understanding  poetry  as  I  am  of  playing  the 
flute,  but  he  does  not  like  to  lag  behind  his 
wife,  he  wants  to  improve  himself  too.  Some- 
times she  puts  me  out  of  patience  herself;  all 

of  a  sudden  a  mood  comes  over  her ;  she  won't 

190 


•  FAUST 

read   or   talk,   she   works   at  her   embroidery 
frame,  busies  herself  with   Natasha,   or  with 
the  housekeeper,  runs  off  all  at  once  into  the 
kitchen,  or  simply  sits  with  her  hands  folded 
looking  out  of  the  window,  or  sets  to  playing 
'fools'  with  the  nurse  ...  I  have  noticed  at 
these  times  it  doesn't  do  to  bother  her ;   it 's 
better  to  bide  one's  time  till  she  comes  up, 
begins  to  talk  or  takes  up  a  book.     She  has  a 
great  deal  of  independence,   and    I    am   very 
glad  of  it.     In  the  days  of  our  youth,  do  you 
remember,  young  girls  would  sometimes  repeat 
one's  own  words  to  one,  as  they  so  well  knew 
how,  and  one  would  be  in  ecstasies  over  the 
echo,  and  possibly  quite  impressed  by  it,  till  one 
realised  what  it  meant?  but  this  woman's  .  .  . 
not  so;  she  thinks  for  herself  She  takes  nothing " 
on  trust;  there's  no  overawing  her  with  autho- 
rity; she  won't  begin  arguing;  but  she  won't 
give  in  either.     We  have  discussed  Faust  more 
than  once ;  but,  strange  to  say,  Gretchen  she  / 
never   speaks   of,  herself,   she   only  listens  to/ 
what    I    say  of  her.     Mephistopheles  terrifies; 
her,  not  as  the  devil,  but  as  *  something  whichj 
may  exist  in  every  man.'  .  .  .   These  are  heif 
own  words.     I  began  trying  to  convince  heij 
that  this  'something  '  is  what  we  call  reflection ,^j 
but  she  does  not  understand  the  word  reflec-| 
tion  in  its  German  sense  ;  she  only  knows  thej 
French     'reflexion,'    and     is    accustomed     toj 
regarding    it    as    useful.      Our    relations    are! 

191 


FAUST 

marvellous !  From  a  certain  point  of  view  I 
can  say  that  I  have  a  great  influence  over  her, 
and  am,  as  it  were,  educating  her ;  but  she  too, 
though  she  is  unaware  of  it  herself,  is  changing 
me  for  the  better  in  many  ways.  It's  only 
lately,  for  instance — thanks  to  her — that  I  have 
discovered  what  an  immense  amount  of  con- 
ventional, rhetorical  stuff  there  is  in  many 
fine  and  celebrated  poetical  works.  What 
leaves  her  cold  is  at  once  suspect  in  my  eyes. 
Yes,  I  have  grown  better,  serener.  One  can't 
be  near  her,  see  her,  and  remain  the  man  one 
was. 

What  will  come  of  all  this  ?  you  ask.  I 
really  believe — nothing.  I  shall  pass  my  time 
very  delightfully  till  September  and  then  go 
away.  Life  will  seem  dark  and  dreary  to  me 
for  the  first  months  ...  I  shall  get  used  to 
it.  I  know  how  full  of  danger  is  any  tie  what- 
ever between  a  man  and  a  young  woman,  how 
imperceptibly  one  feeling  passes  into  another 
...  I  should  have  had  the  strength  to  break 
it  off,  if  I  had  not  been  sure  that  we  were  both 
perfectly  undisturbed.  It  is  true  one  day 
something  queer  passed  between  us.  I  don't 
know  how  or  from  what — I  remember  we  had 
been  reading  Oniegin — I  kissed  her  hand. 
She  turned  a  little  away,  bent  her  eyes  upon 
me  (I  have  never  seen  such  a  look,  except  in 
her;  there  is  dreaminess  and  intent  attention 
in  it,  and  a  sort  of  sternness),  ,  ,  .  suddenly 

192 


FAUST 

flushed,  got  up  and  went  away.  I  did  not 
succeed  in  being  alone  with  her  that  day.  She 
avoided  me,  and  for  four  mortal  hours  she 
played  cards  with  her  husband,  the  nurse,  and 
the  governess !  Next  morning  she  proposed 
a  walk  in  the  garden  to  me.  We  walked  all 
through  it,  down  to  the  lake.  Suddenly  with- 
out turning  towards  me,  she  softly  whispered — 
*  Please  don't  do  that  again ! '  and  instantly 
began  telling  me  about  something  else.  .  .  . 
I  was  very  much  ashamed. 

I  must  admit  that  her  image  is  never  out  of 
my  mind,  and  indeed  I  may  almost  say  I  have 
begun  writing  a  letter  to  you  with  the  object 
of  having  a  reason  for  thinking  and  talking 
about  her.  I  hear  the  tramp  and  neighing  of 
horses ;  it 's  my  carriage  being  got  ready.  I 
am  going  to  see  them.  My  coachman  has 
given  up  asking  me  where  to  drive  to,  when 
I  get  into  my  carriage — he  takes  me  straight 
off  to  the  Priemkovs'.  A  mile  and  a  half  from 
their  village,  at  an  abrupt  turn  in  the  road, 
their  house  suddenly  peeps  out  from  behind 
a  birch  copse  ...  Each  time  I  feel  a  thrill  of 
joy  in  my  heart  directly  I  catch  the  glimmer 
of  its  windows  in  the  distance.  Schimmel  (the 
harmless  old  man   comes   to   see  them   from 

time  to  time ;  the  princes  H ,  thank  God, 

have  only  called  once)  .  .  .  Schimmel,  with 
the  modest  solemnity  characteristic  of  him, 
said  very  aptly,  pointing  to  the  house  where 

193  N 


FAUST 

Vera  lives :  *  That  is  the  abode  of  peace ! '     In 
that  house  dwells  an  angel  of  peace.  .  .  • 

Cover  me  with  thy  wing, 
Still  the  throbbing  of  my  heart, 
And  grateful  will  be  the  shade 
To  the  enraptured  soul.  .  .  . 

But  enough  of  this  ;  or  you  '11  be  fancying 
all  sorts  of  things.  Till  next  time  .  .  .  What 
shall  I  write  to  you  next  time,  I  wonder? — 
Good-bye  !  By  the  way,  she  never  says  '  Good- 
bye,' but  always,  *  So,  good-bye  ! ' — I  like  that 
tremendously. — Yours,  P.  B. 

PS. — I  can't  recollect  whether  I  told  you 
that  she  knows  I  wanted  to  marry  her. 


194 


SIXTH  LETTER 
From  the  SAME  to  the  SAME 

M Village,  August  lo,  1850. 

Confess  you  are  expecting  a  letter  from  me 
of  despair  or  of  rapture !  .  .  .  Nothing  of  the 
sort.  My  letter  will  be  like  any  other  letter. 
Nothing  new  has  happened,  and  nothing,  I 
imagine,  possibly  can  happen.  The  other  day 
we  went  out  in  a  boat  on  the  lake.  I  will  tell 
you  about  this  boating  expedition.  We  were 
three :  she,  Schimmel,  and  I.  I  don't  know 
what  induces  her  to  invite  the  old  fellow  so 

often.     The  H s,  I  hear,  are  annoyed  with 

him  for  neglecting  his  lessons.  This  time, 
though,  he  was  entertaining.  Priemkov  did 
not  come  with  us;  he  had  a  headache.  The 
weather  was  splendid,  brilliant ;  great  white 
clouds  that  seemed  torn  to  shreds  over  a  blue 
sky,  everywhere  glitter,  a  rustle  in  the  trees, 
the  plash  and  lapping  of  water  on  the  bank, 
running  coils  of  gold  on  the  waves,  freshness 
and  sunlight !  At  first  the  German  and  I 
rowed  ;  then  we  hoisted  a  sail  and  flew  before 

195 


FAUST 

the  wind.  The  boat's  bow  almost  dipped  in 
the  water,  and  a  constant  hissing  and  foaming 
followed  the  helm.  She  sat  at  the  rudder  and 
steered  ;  she  tied  a  kerchief  over  her  head  ; 
she  could  not  have  kept  a  hat  on  ;  her  curls 
strayed  from  under  it  and  fluttered  in  the  air. 
She  held  the  rudder  firmly  in  her  little  sun- 
burnt hand,  and  smiled  at  the  spray  which 
flew  at  times  in  her  face.  I  was  curled  up  at 
the  bottom  of  the  boat ;  not  far  from  her  feet. 
The  German  brought  out  a  pipe,  smoked  his 
shag,  and,  only  fancy,  began  singing  in  a  rather 
pleasing  bass.  First  he  sang  the  old-fashioned 
song :  *  Freut  euch  des  Lebens,'  then  an  air 
from  the  '  Magic  Flute,'  then  a  song  called  the 
*  A  B  C  of  Love.'  In  this  song  all  the  letters 
of  the  alphabet — with  additions  of  course — are 
sung  through  in  order,  beginning  with  *  A  B  C 
D — Wenn  ich  dich  seh  ! '  and  ending  with  *  U 
V  W  X — Mach  einen  Knicks  ! '  He  sang  all 
the  couplets  with  much  expression ;  but  you 
should  have  seen  how  slily  he  winked  with  his 
left  eye  at  the  word  '  Knicks  ! '  Vera  laughed 
and  shook  her  finger  at  him.  I  observed  that, 
as  far  as  I  could  judge,  Mr.  Schimmel  had 
been  a  redoubtable  fellow  in  his  day.  *  Oh  yes, 
I  could  take  my  own  part ! '  he  rejoined  with 
dignity;  and  he  knocked  the  ash  out  of  his 
pipe  on  to  his  open  hand,  and,  with  a  knowing 
air,  held  the  mouth-piece  on  one  side  in  his 
teeth,   while    he    felt    in    the    tobacco-pouch. 

196 


FAUST 

'  When  I  was  a  student/  he  added,  *  o-oh-oh !  * 
He  said  nothing  more.  But  what  an  o-oh-oh ! 
it  was !  Vera  begged  him  to  sing  some 
students'  song,  and  he  sang  her :  'Knaster,  den 
gelben,'  but  broke  down  on  the  last  note. 
Altogether  he  was  quite  jovial  and  expansive. 
Meanwhile  the  wind  had  blown  up,  the  waves 
began  to  be  rather  large,  and  the  boat  heeled 
a  little  over  on  one  side ;  swallows  began 
flitting  above  the  water  all  about  us.  We 
made  the  sail  loose  and  began  to  tack  about. 
The  wind  suddenly  blew  a  cross  squall,  we  had 
not  time  to  right  the  sail,  a  wave  splashed  over 
the  boat's  edge  and  fliung  a  lot  of  water  into 
the  boat.  And  now  the  German  proved  him- 
self a  man  of  spirit ;  he  snatched  the  cord  from 
me,  and  set  the  sail  right,  saying  as  he  did  so — 
*  So  macht  man  ins  Kuxhaven  ! ' 

Vera  was  most  likely  frightened,  for  she 
turned  pale,  but  as  her  way  is,  she  did  not  utter 
a  word,  but  picked  up  her  skirt,  and  put  her 
feet  upon  the  crosspiece  of  the  boat.  I  was 
suddenly  reminded  of  the  poem  of  Goethe's  (I 
have  been  simply  steeped  in  him  for  some  time 
past)  .  .  .  you  remember  ? — '  On  the  waves 
glitter  a  thousand  dancing  stars,'  and  I  repeated 
it  aloud.  When  I  reached  the  line  :  *  My  eyes, 
why  do  you  look  down  ? '  she  slightly  raised 
her  eyes  (I  was  sitting  lower  than  she  ;  her  gaze 
had  rested  on  me  from  above)  and  looked  a  long 
while  away  into  the  distance,  screwing  up  her 

197 


FAUST 

eyes  from  the  wind.  ...  A  light  rain  came  on 
in  an  instant,  and  pattered,  making  bubbles  on 
the  water.  I  offered  her  my  overcoat ;  she  put 
it  over  her  shoulders.  We  got  to  the  bank — 
not  at  the  landing-place — and  walked  home.  I 
gave  her  my  arm.  I  kept  feeling  that  I  wanted 
to  tell  her  something  ;  but  I  did  not  speak. 
I  asked  her,  though,  I  remember,  why  she 
always  sat,  when  she  was  at  home,  under  the 
portrait  of  Madame  Eltsov,  like  a  little  bird 
under  its  mother's  wing.  'Your  comparison  is 
a  very  true  one,'  she  responded,  *  I  never  want 
to  come  out  from  under  her  wing.'  *  Shouldn't 
you  like  to  come  out  into  freedom?'  I  asked 
again.     She  made  no  answer. 

I  don't  know  why  I  have  described  this 
expedition — perhaps,  because  it  has  remained 
in  my  memory  as  one  of  the  brightest  events 
of  the  past  days,  though,  in  reality,  how  can 
one  call  it  an  event?  I  had  such  a  sense  of 
comfort  and  unspeakable  gladness  of  heart,  and 
tears,  light,  happy  tears  were  on  the  point  of 
bursting  from  my  eyes. 

Oh !  fancy,  the  next  day,  as  I  was  walking 
in  the  garden  by  the  arbour,  I  suddenly  heard 
a  pleasing,  musical,  woman's  voice  singing — 
'Freut  euch  des  Lebens  !'...!  glanced  into  the 
arbour  :  it  was  Vera.  '  Bravo  ! '  I  cried  ;  *  I 
didn't  know  you  had  such  a  splendid  voice.' 
She  was  rather  abashed,  and  did  not  speak. 
Joking  apart,  she  has  a  fine,  strong  soprano. 

198 


FAUST 

And  I  do  believe  she  has  never  even  suspected 
that  she  has  a  good  voice.  What  treasures  of 
untouched  wealth  lie  hid  in  her  !  She  does  not 
know  herself.  But  am  I  not  right  in  saying 
such  a  woman  is  a  rarity  in  our  time? 

August  12. 

We  had  a  very  strange  conversation  yesterday. 
We  touched  first  upon  apparitions.  Fancy,  she 
believes  in  them,  and  says  she  has  her  own 
reasons  for  it.  Priemkov,  who  was  sitting  there, 
dropped  his  eyes,  and  shook  his  head,  as  though 
in  confirmation  of  her  words.  I  began  question- 
ing her,  but  soon  noticed  that  this  conversation 
was  disagreeable  to  her.  We  began  talking  of 
imagination,  of  the  power  of  imagination.  I 
told  them  that  in  my  youth  I  used  to  dream  a 
great  deal  about  happiness  (the  common  occu- 
pation of  people,  who  have  not  had  or  are  not 
having  good  luck  in  life).  Among  other  dreams, 
I  used  to  brood  over  the  bliss  it  would  be  to 
spend  a  few  weeks,  with  the  woman  I  loved,  in 
Venice.  I  so  often  mused  over  this,  especially 
at  night,  that  gradually  there  grew  up  in  my 
head  a  whole  picture,  which  I  could  call  up  at 
will  :  I  had  only  to  close  my  eyes.  This  is 
what  I  imagined — night,  a  moon,  the  moonlight 
white  and  soft,  a  scent — of  lemon,  do  you 
suppose  ?  no,  of  vanilla,  a  scent  of  cactus,  a  wide 
expanse  of  water,  a  flat  island  overgrown  with 
olives ;  on  the  island,  at  the  edge  of  the  shore, 

199 


FAUST 

a  small  marble  house,  with  open  windows ; 
music  audible,  coming  from  I  know  not  where ; 
in  the  house  trees  with  dark  leaves,  and  the 
light  of  a  half-shaded  lamp  ;  from  one  window, 
a  heavy  velvet  cloak,  with  gold  fringe,  hangs 
out  with  one  end  falling  in  the  water  ;  and  with 
their  arms  on  the  cloak,  sit  he  and  she^  gazing 
into  the  distance  where  Venice  can  be  seen. 
All  this  rose  as  clearly  before  my  mind  as 
though  I  had  seen  it  all  with  my  own  eyes. 
She  listened  to  my  nonsense,  and  said  that  she 
too  often  dreamed,  but  that  her  day-dreams 
were  of  a  different  sort :  she  fancied  herself  in 
the  deserts  of  Africa,  with  some  explorer,  or 
seeking  the  traces  of  Franklin  in  the  frozen 
Arctic  Ocean.  She  vividly  imagined  all  the 
hardships  she  had  to  endure,  all  the  difficulties 
she  had  to  contend  with.  .  .  . 

*  You  have  read  a  lot  of  travels,'  observed  her 
husband. 

*  Perhaps,'  she  responded  ;  *  but  if  one  must 
N  dream,  why  need  one  dream  of  the  unattain- 
able?' 

*  And  why  not  ? '  I  retorted.      '  Why  is  the 
poor  unattainable  to  be  condemned  ?  ' 

p  ^    '  I  did  not  say  that,'  she  said  ;  *  I  meant  to 

j^ ^^  say,  what  need  is  there  to  dream  of  oneself,  of 

'tt-*C    o'^^'s  own  happiness  ?     It 's  useless  thinking  of 

V    /"'^that;  it  does  not  come — whx.puris.ue.  it  ?-  It  is 

rf  like   health ;   when   you    don't   think   of  it,  it 

means  that  it's  there.' 

200 


FAUST 

These  words  astonished  me.  There's  a 
great  soul  in  this  woman,  believe  me.  . ,  .  From 
Venice  the  conversation  passed  to  Italy,  to  the 
Italians.  Priemkov  went  away,  Vera  and  I 
were  left  alone. 

*  You  have  Italian  blood  in  your  veins  too/ 
I  observed. 

*  Yes,'  she  responded  ;  *  shall  I  showvou  the 
portrait  of  my  grandmother  ? '  "^^^ 

'  Please  do.' 

She  went  to  her  own  sitting-room,  and 
brought  out  a  rather  large  gold  locket.  Open- 
ing this  locket,  I  saw  excellently  painted  minia- 
ture portraits  of  Madame  Eltsov's  father  and 
his  wife — the  peasant  woman  from  Albano. 
Vera's  grandfather  struck  me  by  his  likeness  to 
his  daughter.  Only  his  features,  set  in  a  white 
cloud  of  powder,  seemed  even  more  severe, 
sharp,  and  hard,  and  in  his  little  yellow  eyes 
there  was  a  gleam  of  a  sort  of  sullen  obstinacy. 
But  what  a  face  the  Italian  woman  had,  volup- 
tuous, open  like  a  full-blown  rose,  with  pro- 
minent, large,  liquid  eyes,  and  complacently 
smiling  red  lips  !  Her  delicate  sensual  nostrils 
seemed  dilating  and  quivering  as  after  recent 
kisses.  The  dark  cheeks  seemed  fragrant  of 
glowing  heat  and  health,  the  luxuriance  of 
youth  and  womanly  power  .  .  .  That  brow  had 
never  done  any  thinking,  and,  thank  God,  she 
had  been  depicted  in  her  Albanian  dress !  The 
artist  (a  master)  had  put  a  vine  in  her  hair, 

20I 


FAUST 

which  was  black  as  pitch  with  bright  grey  high 
lights  ;  this  Bacchic  ornament  was  in  marvellous 
keeping  with  the  expression  of  her  face.  And 
do  you  know  of  whom  the  face  reminded  me? 
My  Manon  Lescaut  in  the  black  frame.  And 
what  is  most  wonderful  of  all,  as  I  looked  at 
the  portrait,  I  recalled  that  in  Vera  too,  in  spite 
of  the  utter  dissimilarity  of  the  features,  there 
is  at  times  a  gleam  of  something  like  that 
smile,  that  look.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  tell  you  again  ;  neither  she  herself  nor 
any  one  else  in  the  world  knows  as  yet  all  that 
is  latent  in  her.  .  .  . 

By  the  way — Madame  Eltsov,  before  her 
daughter's  marriage,  told  her  all  her  life,  her 
mother's  death,  and  so  on,  probably  with  a  view 
to  her  edification.  What  specially  affected 
Vera  was  what  she  heard  about  her  grandfather, 
the  mysterious  Ladanov.  Isn't  it  owing  to 
that  that  she  believes  in  apparitions?  It's 
strange !  She  is  so  pure  and  bright  herself,  and 
tyet  is  afraid  of  everything  dark  and  under- 
jground,  and  believes  in  it.  .  .  . 

But  enough.  Why  write  all  this  ?  However, 
as  it  is  written,  it  may  be  sent  off  to  you. — 
Yours,  P.  B. 


202 


SEVENTH  LET.TER 

From  .the  SAME  to  the  SAME 

M Village,  August  22,  1850. 

I  TAKE  Up  my  pen  ten  days  after  my  last 
letter  .  .  .  Oh  my  dear  fellow,  I  can't  hide  my 
feelings  any  longer !  .  .  .  How  wretched  I  am  ! 
How  I  love  her  !  You  can  imagine  with  what 
a  thrill  of  bitterness  I  write  that  fatal  word.  I 
am  not  a  boy,  not  a  young  man  even ;  I  am  no 
longer  at  that  stage  when  to  deceive  another  is 
almost  impossible,  but  to  deceive  oneself  costs 
no  effort.  I  know  all,  and  see  clearly.  I  know 
that  I  am  just  on  forty,  that  she 's  another 
man's  wife,  that  she  loves  her  husband ;  I 
know  very  well  that  the  unhappy  feeling 
which  has  gained  possession  of  me  can  lead  to 
nothing  but  secret  torture  and  an  utter  waste 
of  vital  energy  —  I  know  all  that,  I  expect 
nothing,  and  I  wish  for  nothing;  but  I  am  not 
the  better  off  for  that.  As  long  as  a  month 
ago  I  began  to  notice  that  the  attraction  she 
has  for  me  was  growing  stronger  and  stronger. 
This    partly    troubled    me,   and    partly   even 

203 


FAUST 

delighted  me  .  .  .  But  how  could  I  dream  that 
everything  would  be  repeated  with  me,  which 
you  would  have  thought  could  no  more  come 
again  than  youth  can?  What  am  I  saying! 
I  never  loved  like  this,  no,  never !  Manon 
Lescauts,  Fritilions,  these  were  my  idols — such 
idols  can  easily  be  broken  ;  but  now  .  .  .  only 
now,  I  have  found  out  what  it  is  to  love  a 
woman.  I  feel  ashamed  even  to  speak  of  it ; 
but  it 's  so.  I  'm  ashamed  .  .  .  Love  is  egoism 
any  way  ;  and  at  my  years  it 's  not  permissible 
to  be  an  egoist ;  at  thirty-seven  one  cannot 
live  for  oneself;  one  must  live  to  some  purpose, 
with  the  aim  of  doing  one's  duty,  one's  work 
on  earth.  And  I  had  bes^un  to  set  to  work  .  .  . 
And  here  everything  is  scattered  to  the  winds 
again,  as  by  a  hurricane!  Now  I  understand 
what  I  wrote  to  you  in  my  first  letter ;  I 
understand  now  what  was  the  experience  I 
had  missed.  How  suddenly  this  blow  has 
fallen  upon  me !  I  stand  and  look  senselessly 
forward  ;  a  black  veil  hangs  before  my  eyes ; 
my  heart  is  full  of  heaviness  and  dread !  I 
can  control  myself,  I  am  outwardly  calm  not 
only  before  others,  but  even  in  solitude.  I 
can't  really  rave  like  a  boy !  But  the  worm 
has  crept  into  my  heart,  and  gnaws  it  night 
and  day.  How  will  it  end?  Hitherto  I  have 
fretted  and  suffered  when  away  from  her,  and 
in  her  presence  was  at  peace  again  at  once — 
now  I  have  no  rest  even  when  I  am  with  her, 

204 


FAUST 

that  is  what  alarms  me.  Oh  my  friend,  how 
hard  it  is  to  be  ashamed  of  one's  tears,  to  hide 
them  !  Only  youth  may  weep  ;  tears  are  only 
fitting  for  the  young.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  read  over  this  letter ;  it  has  been 
wrung  from  me  involuntarily,  like  a  groan.  I 
can  add  nothing,  tell  you  nothing  .  .  .  Give 
me  time;  I  will  con^e  to  niyself,  and  possess 
mv  soul  a^ain  ;  I  wilf  talk  to  you  like  a  man, 
but  now  I  am  longing  to  lay  my  head  on  your 
breast  and 

Oh  Mephistopheles !  you  too  are  no  help 
to  me  !  I  stopped  short  of  set  purpose,  of  set 
purpose  I  called  up  what  irony  is  in  me,  I  told 
myself  how  ludicrous  and  mawkish  these 
laments,  these  outbursts  will  seem  to  me  in  a 
year,  in  half  a  year  .  .  .  No,  Mephistopheles 
is  powerless,  his  tooth  has  lost  its  edge.  .  .  . 
Farewell. — Yours,  P.  B. 


205 


EIGHTH  LETTER 
From  the  same  to  the  SAME 

M Village,  September  8,  1850. 

My  dear  Semyon  Nikolaitch, — You  have 
taken  my  last  letter  too  much  to  heart. 
You  know  I  have  always  been  given  to  ex- 
aggerating my  sensations.  It 's  done  as  it 
were  unconsciously  in  me ;  a  womanish  nature! 
In  the  process  of  years  this  will  pass  away  of 
course ;  but  I  admit  with  e  sigh  I  have  not 
corrected  the  failing  so  far.  So  set  your  mind 
at  rest.  I  am  not  going  to  deny  the  impres- 
sion made  on  me  by  Vera,  but  I  say  again,  in 
all  this  there  is  nothing  out  of  the  way.  For 
you  to  come  here,  as  you  write  of  doing,  would 
be  out  of  the  question,  quite.  Post  over  a 
thousand  versts,  God  knows  with  what  object 
— why,  it  would  be  madness !  But  I  am  very 
grateful  for  this  fresh  proof  of  your  affection, 
and  believe  me,  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Your 
journey  here  would  be  the  more  out  of  place  as 
I  mean  to  come  to  Petersburg  shortly  myself. 
When  I  am  sitting  on  your  sofa,  I  shall  have  a 

206 


FAUST 

freat  deal  to  tell  you,  but  now  I  really  don't 
vant  to;  what's  the  use?  I  shall  only  talk 
lonsense,  I  dare  say,  and  muddle  things  up. 
'.  will  write  to  you  again  before  I  start.  And 
;o  good-bye  for  a  little  while.  Be  well  and 
lappy,  and  don't  worry  yourself  too  much 
ibout  the  fate  of — your  devoted,  P.  B. 


307 


NINTH  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  SAME 

P Village,  March  lo,  1853. 

I  HAVE  been  a  long  while  without  answering 
your  letter ;  I  have  been  all  these  days  think- 
ing about  it,  I  felt  that  it  was  not  idle 
curiosity  but  real  friendship  that  prompted 
you,  and  yet  I  hesitated  whether  to  follow 
your  advice,  whether  to  act  on  your  desire. 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  at  last ;  I  will  tell 
you  everything.  Whether  my  confession  will 
ease  my  heart  as  you  suppose,  I  don't  know  ; 
but  it  seems  to  me  I  have  no  right  to  hide 
from  you  what  has  changed  my  life  for  ever; 
It  seems  to  me,  indeed,  that  I  should  be 
wronging — alas  !  even  more  wronging — the 
dear  being  ever  in  my  thoughts,  if  I  did  not 
confide  our  mournful  secret  to  the  one  heart 
still  dear  to  me.  You  alone,  perhaps,  on  earth, 
remember  Vera,  and  you  judge  of  her  lightly 
and  falsely ;  that  I  cannot  endure.  You  shall 
know  all.  Alas  !  it  can  all  be  told  in  a  couple 
of  words.     All  there  was  between  us  flashed 

208 


FAUST 

by  in  an  instant,  like  lightning,  and  like  light- 
ning, brought  death  and  ruin.  .  .  .  Over  two 
^ears  have  passed  since  she  died  ;  since  I  took 
jp  my  abode  in  this  remote  spot,  which  I  shall 
not  leave  till  the  end  of  my  days,  and  every- 
thing is  still  as  vivid  in  my  memory,  my 
;vounds  are  still  as  fresh,  my  grief  as  bitter  .  .  . 
[  will  not  complain.  Complaints  rouse  up 
sorrow  and  so  ease  it,  but  not  mine.  I  will 
begin  my  story. 

Do  you  remember  my  last  letter — the  letter 
in  which  I  tried  to  allay  your  fears  and  dis- 
suaded you  from  coming  from  Petersburg? 
Vou  suspected  its  assumed  lightness  of  tone, 
^ou  put  no  faith  in  our  seeing  each  other  soon; 
^ou  were  right.  On  the  day  before  I  wrote  to 
^ou,  I  had  learnt  that  I  was  loved.  As  I 
A^rite  these  words,  I  realise  how  hard  it 
kvould  be  for  me  to  tell  my  story  to  the  end. 
rhe  ever  insistent  thought  of  her  death  will 
:orture  me  with  redoubled  force,  I  shall  be 
:onsumed  by  these  memories.  .  .  .  But  I  will 
:ry  to  master  myself,  and  will  either  throw 
iside  the  pen,  or  will  say  not  a  word  more 
:han  is  necessary.  This  is  how  I  learnt  that 
V"era  loved  me.  First  of  all  I  must  tell  you 
'and  you  will  believe  me)  that  up  to  that  day 
f  had  absolutely  no  suspicion.  It  is  true  she 
lad  grown  pensive  at  times,  which  had  never 
Deen  the  way  with  her  before ;  but  I  did  not 
know  why  this  change  had  come  upon   her. 

209  o 


FAUST 

At  last,  one  day,  the  seventh  of  September 
— a  day  memorable  for  me — this  is  what 
happened.  You  know  how  I  loved  her  and 
how  wretched  I  was.  I  wandered  about  like  an 
uneasy  spirit,  and  could  find  no  rest.  I  tried 
to  keep  at  home,  but  I  could  not  control  my- 
self, and  went  off  to  her.  I  found  her  alone 
in  her  own  sitting-room.  Priemkov  was  not 
at  home,  he  had  gone  out  shooting.  When 
I  went  in  to  Vera,  she  looked  intently  at  me 
and  did  not  respond  to  my  bow.  She  was 
sitting  at  the  window  ;  on  her  knees  lay  a 
book  I  recognised  at  once  ;  it  was  my  Faust. 
Her  face  showed  traces  of  weariness.  I  sat 
down  opposite  her.  She  asked  me  to  read 
aloud  the  scene  of  Faust  with  Gretchen,  when 
she  asks  him  if  he  believes  in  God.  I  took 
the  book  and  Began  reading.  When  I  had 
finished,  I  glanced  at  her.  Her  head  leaning 
on  the  back  of  her  low  chair  and  her  arms 
crossed  on  her  bosom,  she  was  still  looking  as 
intently  at  me. 

I  don't  know  why,  my  heart  suddenly  began 
to  throb. 

'  What  have  you  done  to  me  ? '  she  said  in  a 
slow  voice. 

*  What  ? '  I  articulated  in  confusion. 

'  Yes,   what   have    you   done   to   me  ? '    she 
repeated. 

*  You  mean  to  say,'  I  began  ;    *  why  did   1 
persuade  you  to  read  such  books  ? ' 

210 


FAUST 

She  rose  without  speaking,  and  went  out  of 
the  room.     I  looked  after  her. 

On  the  doorway  she  stopped  and  turned 
to  me. 

'  I  love  you,'  she  said  ;  '  that 's  what  you 
have  done  to  me.' 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  head.  .  .  . 

*  I  love  you,  I  am  in  love  with  you,'  repeated 
Vera. 

She  went  out  and  shut  the  door  after  her. 
I  will  not  try  to  describe  what  passed  within 
me  then.  I  remember  I  went  out  into  the 
garden,  made  my  way  into  a  thicket,  leaned 
against  a  tree,  and  how  long  I  stood  there,  I 
could  not  say.  I  felt  faint  and  numb  ;  a  feel- 
ing of  bliss  came  over  my  heart  with  a  rush 
from  time  to  time.  .  .  .  No,  I  cannot  speak  of 
that.  Priemkov's  voice  roused  me  from  my 
stupor ;  they  had  sent  to  tell  him  I  had  come: 
he  had  come  home  from  shooting  and  was 
looking  for  me.  He  was  surprised  at  finding 
me  alone  in  the  garden,  without  a  hat  on,  and 
he  led  me  into  the  house.  '  My  wife's  in  the 
drawing-room,'  he  observed  ;  '  let 's  go  to  her.' 
You  can  imagine  my  sensations  as  I  stepped 
through  the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room.  Vera 
was  sitting  in  the  corner,  at  her  embroidery 
frame ;  I  stole  a  glance  at  her,  and  it  was 
a  long  while  before  I  raised  my  eyes  again. 
To  my  amazement,  she  seemed  composed ; 
there  was  no  trace  of  agitation  in  what  she 

211 


FAUST 

said,  nor  in  the  sound  of  her  voice.  At  last  I 
brought  myself  to  look  at  her.  Our  eyes  met 
.  .  .  She  faintly  blushed,  and  bent  over  her 
canvas.  I  began  to  watch  her.  She  seemed, 
as  it  were,  perplexed ;  a  cheerless  smile  hung 
about  her  lips  now  and  then. 

Priemkov  went  out.  She  suddenly  raised 
her  head  and  in  a  rather  loud  voice  asked  me — 
*  What  do  you  intend  to  do  now  ? ' 

I  was  taken  aback,  and  hurriedly,  in  a  sub- 
dued voice,  answered,  that  I  intended  to  do 
the  duty  of  an  honest  man — to  go  away,  *  for,' 
I  added,  *  I  love  you,  Vera  Nikolaevna,  you 
have  probably  seen  that  long  ago.'  She  bent 
over  her  canvas  again  and  seemed  to  ponder. 

*  I  must  talk  with  you,'  she  said  ;  *  come  this 
evening  after  tea  to  our  little  house  .  .  .  you 
know,  where  you  read  Faiist! 

She  said  this  so  distinctly  that  I  can't  to  this 
day  conceive  how  it  was  Priemkov,  who  came 
into  the  room  at  that  instant,  heard  nothing. 
Slowly,  terribly  slowly,  passed  that  day.  Vera 
sometimes  looked  about  her  with  an  expres- 
sion as  though  she  were  asking  herself  if  she 
were  not  dreaming.  And  at  the  same  time 
there  was  a  look  of  determination  in  her  face  ; 
while  I  ...  I  could  not  recover  myself.  Vera 
loves  me !  These  words  were  continually 
going  round  and  round  in  my  head  ;  but  I 
did  not  understand  them — I  neither  under- 
stood myself  nor  her.     I  could  not  believe  in 

212 


FAUST 

such  unhoped-for,  such  overwhelming  happi- 
ness ;  with  an  effort  I  recalled  the  past,  and  I 
too  looked  and  talked  as  in  a  dream.  .  .  . 

After  evening  tea,  when  I  had  already  begun 
to  think  how  I  could  steal  out  of  the  house 
unobserved,  she  suddenly  announced  of  her 
own  accord  that  she  wanted  a  walk,  and  asked 
me  to  accompany  her.  I  got  up,  took  my  hat, 
and  followed  her.  I  did  not  dare  begin  to 
speak,  I  could  scarcely  breathe,  I  awaited  her 
first  word,  I  awaited  explanations  ;  but  she  did 
not  speak.  In  silence  we  reached  the  summer- 
house,  in  silence  we  went  into  it,  and  then — I 
don't  know  to  this  day,  I  can't  understand 
how  it  happened — we  suddenly  found  our- 
selves in  each  other's  arms.  Some  unseen 
force  flung  me  to  her  and  her  to  me.  In  the 
fading  daylight,  her  face,  with  the  curls  tossed 
back,  lighted  up  for  an  instant  with  a  smile  of 
self-surrender  and  tenderness,  and  our  lips  met 
in  a  kiss.  .  .  . 

That  kiss  was  the  first  and  last. 

Vera  suddenly  broke  from  my  arms  and 
with  an  expression  of  horror  in  her  wide  open 
eyes  staggered  back 

'  Look  round,'  she  said  in  a  shaking  voice ; 
*  do  you  see  nothing  ? ' 

I  turned  round  quickly. 

*  Nothing.     Why,  do  you  see  something  ?  * 

*  Not  now,  but  I  did.' 

She  drew  deep,  gasping  breaths. 

213 


FAUST 

*Whom?  what?' 

*  My  mother/  she  said  slowly,  and  she  began 
trembling  all  over.  I  shivered  too,  as  though 
with  cold.  I  suddenly  felt  ashamed,  as  though 
I  were  guilty.  And  indeed,  wasn't  I  guilty  at 
that  instant  ? 

'  Nonsense  ! '  I  began  ;  'what  do  you  mean? 
Tell  me  rather ' 

*  No,  for   God's   sake,  no ! '  she   interposed, 
clutching     her    head.       '  This    is    madness — 
I  'm  going  out  of  my  mind.   .    .  .    One  caji'J^ 
play  with  this— :it/s  death.  . .  .  Good-bye.  . .  .* 

I  held  out  my  hands  to  her. 

'  Stay,  for  God's  sake,  for  an  instant,'  I  cried 
in  an  involuntary  outburst.  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  saying  and  could  scarcely  stand 
upright.    *  For  God's  sake  ...  it  is  too  cruel ! ' 

She  glanced  at  me. 

*  To-morrow,  to-morrow  evening,'  she  said, 
*  not  to-day,  I  beseech  you  —  go  away  to- 
day .  .  .  to-morrow  evening  come  to  the 
garden  gate,  near  the  lake.  I  will  be  there,  I 
will  come.  ...  I  swear  to  you  I  will  come,'  she 
added  with  passion,  and  her  eyes  shone ; 
'  whoever  may  hinder  me,  I  swear !  I  will  tell 
you  everything,  only  let  me  go  to-day.' 

And  before  I  could  utter  a  word  she  was 
gone.  Utterly  distraught,  I  stayed  where  I 
was.  My  head  was  in  a  whirl.  Across  the 
mad  rapture,  which  filled  my  whole  being, 
there  began  to  steal  a  feeling  of  apprehension. 

214 


FAUST 

,  .  .  I  looked  round.  The  dim,  damp  room  in 
which  I  was  standing  oppressed  me  with  its 
low  roof  and  dark  walls. 

I  went  out  and  walked  with  dejected  steps 
towards  the  house.  Vera  was  waiting  for  me 
on  the  terrace  ;  she  went  into  the  house  directly 
I  drew  near,  and  at  once  retreated  to  her 
bedroom. 

I  went  away. 

How  1  spent  the  night  and  the  next  day  till 
the  evening  I  can't  tell  you.  I  only  remember 
that  I  lay,  my  face  hid  in  my  hands,  I  recalled 
her  smile  before  our  kiss,  I  whispered — *At 
last,  she   .  .  .' 

I  recalled,  too,  Madame  Eltsov's  words, 
which  Vera  had  repeated  to  me.  She  had  said 
to  her  once, '  You,  are  like  ice  ;  until  you-jnelt 
as  strong  as  stone,  but  directlyyou  melt 
there ^s  noffiihg^of  youreTf.*" 

Another  thing  recurred  to  my  mind ;  Vera 
and  I  had  once  been  talking  of  talent,  ability. 

'  There  's  only  one  thing  I  can  do,'  she  said  ; 
'keep  silent  till  the  last jmnute.' 

I  did  not  understand  it  in  the  least  at  the 
time. 

*But  what  is  the  meaning  of  her  fright?* 
I  wondered  —  'Can  she  really  have  seen 
Madame  Eltsov?  Imagination!'  I  thought, 
and  again  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  emotions  of 
expectation. 

It  was  on  that  day  I  wrote  you, — with  what 

215 


FAUST 

thoughts  in  my  head  it  hurts  me  to  recall — that 
deceitful  letter. 

In  the  evening — the  sun  had  not  yet  set — I 
took  up  my  stand  about  fifty  paces  from  the 
garden  gate  in  a  tall  thicket  on  the  edge  of  the 
lake.  I  had  come  from  home  on  foot.  I  will 
confess  to  my  shame ;  fear,  fear  of  the  most 
cowardly  kind,  filled  my  heart ;  I  was  inces- 
santly starting  .  .  .  but  I  had  no  feeling  of 
remorse.  Hiding  among  the  twigs,  I  kept 
coatinual  watch  on  the  little  gate.  It  did  not 
open.  The  sun  set,  the  evening  drew  on  ;  then 
the  stars  came  out,  and  the  sky  turned  black. 
No  one  appeared.  I  was  in  a  fever.  Night 
came  on.  I  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  I  came 
cautiously  out  of  the  thicket  and  stole  down 
to  the  gate.  Everything  was  still  in  the  garden. 
I  called  Vera,  in  a  whisper,  called  a  second 
time,  a  third.  .  .  .  No  voice  called  back.  Half- 
an-hour  more  passed  by,  and  an  hour;  it 
became  quite  dark.  I  was  worn  out  by  sus- 
pense ;  I  drew  the  gate  towards  me,  opened  it  at 
once,  and  on  tip-toe,  like  a  thief,  walked  towards 
the  house.  I  stopped  in  the  shadow  of  a  lime-tree. 

Almost  all  the  windows  in  the  house  had 
lights  in  them  ;  people  were  moving  to  and  fro 
in  the  house.  This  surprised  me ;  my  watch, 
as  far  as  I  could  make  out  in  the  dim  starlight, 
said  half-past  eleven.  Suddenly  I  heard  a 
noise  near  the  house ;  a  carriage  drove  out  of 
the  courtyard. 

216 


FAUST 

*  Visitors,  it  seems/  I  thought.  Losing  every 
)pe  of  seeing  Vera,  I  made  my  way  out  of 
le  garden  and  walked  with  rapid  steps  home- 
ards.  It  was  a  dark  September  night,  but 
arm  and  windless.  The  feeling,  not  so  much 
"  annoyance  as  of  sadness,  which  had  taken 
Dssession  of  me,  gradually  disappeared,  and  I 
:>t  home,  rather  tired  from  my  rapid  walk, 
it  soothed  by  the  peacefulness  of  the  night, 
ippy  and  almost  light-hearted.  I  went  to  my 
>om,  dismissed  Timofay,  and  without  un- 
•essing,  flung  myself  on  my  bed  and  plunged 
to  reverie. 

At  first  my  day-dreams  were  sweet,  but  soon 
noticed  a  curious  change  in  myself  I  began  * 
►  feel  a  sort  of  secret  gnawing  anxiaty^A.SQrt  j 
■  deep^iaward  uneasiness.  I  could  nqt^under-  \ 
and  what  it  arose  from,  but  I  began  to  feel 
ck  and  sad,  as  thbuerh"  I  were  menareij  hy 
)me  approaching  trouble,  as  though  some  one 
sar  to  me  were  suffering  at  thatjnstant _an.d 
illing  on  me  for  help.  A  wax  candle  on  the 
ible  burnt  with  a  small,  steady  flame,  the 
sndulum  swung  with  a  heavy,  regular  tick, 
leant  my  head  on  my  hand  and  fell  to  gazing 
ito  the  empty  half-dark  of  my  lonely  room, 
thought  of  Vera,  and  my  heart  failed  me ; 
11,  at  which  I  had  so  rejoiced,  struck  me,  as  it 
Light  to  have  done,  as  unhappiness,  as  hopeless 
lin.  The  feeling  of  apprehension  grew  and 
rew;    I    could   not    lie   still   any   longer;    I 

217 


FAUST 

suddenly  fancied  again  that  some  one  was 
calling  me  in  a  voice  of  entreaty.  ...  I  raised 
my  head  and  shuddered  ;  I  had  not  been  mis- 
taken ;  a  pitiful  cry  floated  out  of  the  distance 
and  rang  faintly  resounding  on  the  dark 
window-panes.  I  was  frightened ;  I  jumped 
off  the  bed  ;  I  opened  the  window.  A  distinct 
moan  broke  into  the  room  and,  as  it  were, 
hovered  about  me.  Chilled  with  terror,  I 
drank  in  its  last  dying  echoes.  It  seemed  as 
though  some  one  were  being  killed  in  the 
distance  and  the  luckless  wretch  were  beseech- 
ing in  vain  for  mercy.  Whether  it  was  an  owl 
hooting  in  the  wood  or  some  other  creature 
that  uttered  this  wail,  I  did  not  think  to 
consider  at  the  time,  but,  like  Mazeppa,  I  called 
back  in  answer  to  the  ill-omened  sound. 

*  Vera,  Vera ! '  I  cried  ;  *  is  it  you  calling 
me?'  Timofay,  sleepy  and  amazed,  appeared 
before  me. 

I  came  to  my  senses,  drank  a  glass  of  water, 
and  went  into  another  room  ;  but  sleep  did 
not  come  to  me.  My  heart  throbbed  painfully 
though  not  rapidly.  I  could  not  abandon 
myself  to  dreams  of  happiness  again ;  I  dared 
not  believe  in  it. 

Next  day,  before  dinner,  I  went  to  the 
Priemkovs'.  Priemkov  met  me  with  a  care- 
worn face. 

*  My  wife  is  ill,'  he  began  ;  *  she  is  in  bed  ;  I 

sent  for  a  doctor.' 

218 


FAUST 

*  What  IS  the  matter  with  her  ? ' 

*  I  can't  make  out.  Yesterday  evening  she 
'ent  into  the  garden  and  suddenly  came  back 
uite  beside  herself,  panic-stricken.  Her  maid 
m  for  me.  I  went  in,  and  asked  my  wife 
hat  was  wrong.  She  made  no  answer,  and 
)  she  has  lain  ;  by  night  delirium  set  in.  In 
er  delirium  she  said  all  sorts  of  things ;  she 
lentioned  you.  The  maid  told  me  an  extra- 
rdinary  thing ;  that  Vera's  mother  appeared  ,^.( 
)  her  in  the  garden ;  she  fancied  she  was  p** 
Dming  to  meet  her  with  open  arms.' 

You  can  imagine  what  I  felt  at  these  words.  C^ 

*  Of  course  that 's  nonsense,'  Priemkov  went 
n ;  *  though  I  must  admit  that  extraordinary 
lings  have  happened  to  my  wife  in  that  way.' 

*  And  you  say  Vera  Nikolaevna  is  very  un- 
ell?' 

*  Yes :  she  was  very  bad  in  the  night ;  now 
le  is  wandering.' 

*  What  did  the  doctor  say  ?  ' 

*  The  doctor  said  that  the  disease  was  unde- 
ned  as  yet.  .  .  .' 

March  12. 

I  cannot  go  on  as  I  began,  dear  friend ;  it 
Dsts  me  too  much  effort  and  re-opens  my 
ounds  too  cruelly.  The  disease,  to  use  the 
octor's  words,  became  defined,  and  Vera  died 
r  it.  She  did  not  live  a  fortnight  after  the 
ital  day  of  our  momentary  interview.     I  saw 

219 


FAUST 

her  once  more  before  her  death.  I  have  no 
memory  more  heart-rending.  I  had  already 
learned  from  the  doctor  that  there  was  no 
hope.  Late  in  the  evening,  when  every  one  in 
the  house  was  in  bed,  I  stole 'to  the  door  of 
her  room  and  looked  in  at  her.  Vera  lay  in 
her  bed,  with  closed  eyes,  thin  and  small,  with 
a  feverish  flush  on  her  cheeks.  I  gazed  at  her 
as  though  turned  to  stone.  All  at  once  she 
opened  her  eyes,  fastened  them  upon  me, 
scrutinised  me,  and  stretching '  out  a  wasted 
hand — 

*  Was  will  er  an  dem  heiligen  Ort 
Der  da  ,  .  .  der  dort  .  .  .'  ^ 

she  articulated,  in  a  voice  so  terrible  that  I 
rushed  headlong  away.  Almost  all  through 
her  illness,  she  raved  about  Faust  and  her 
mother,  whom  she  sometimes  called  Martha, 
sometimes  Gretchen's  mother. 

Vera  died.  I  was  at  her  burying.  Ever 
since  then  I  have  given  up  everything  and  am 
settled  here  for  ever. 

Think  now  of  what  I  have  told  you ;  think 
of  her,  of  that  being  so  quickly  brought  to 
destruction.  How  it  came  to  pass,  how  ex- 
plain this  incomprehensible  intervention  of  the 
dead  in  the  affairs  of  the  living,  I  don't  know 
and  never  shall  know.  But  you  must  admit 
that  it  is  not  a  fit  of  whimsical  spleen,  as  you 

^  Faust^  Part  i.,  Last  Scene. 
220 


FAUST 

express  it,  which  has  driven  me  to  retire  from 
the  world.  I  am  not  what  I  was,  as  you  knew 
me ;  I  believe  in  a  great  deal  now  which  I  did 
not  believe  formerly.  All  this  time  I  have 
thought  so  much  of  that  unhappy  woman  (I 
had  almost  said,  girl),  of  her  origin,  of  the 
secret  play  of  fate,  which  we  in  our  blindnes? 
call  blind  chance.  W^ho  knows  what  seeds 
eacTT  man  living  on  earth  leaves  behind  him, 
which  are  onlY"^estrne3rtQ  come  up  after  Jiis 
deathj  Who  can  say  by  what  mysterious 
bond  a  man's. fate  is  bound  up  with  his  chil- 
dren's, his  descendants'  •_how  his  yearnings  are 
reflected  in  them,  and  how  they  are  punished 
for  his  errors?  We  must  all  submit  and  bow 
our  heads  before  the  Unknown. 

Yes,  Vera  perished,  while  I  was  untouched. 
I  remember,  when  I  was  a  child,  we  had  in  my 
home  a  lovely  vase  of  transparent  alabaster. 
Not  a  spot  sullied  its  virgiiLJvhiteness.  One 
day  when  I  was  left  alone,  I  began  shaking  the 
stand  on  which  it  stood  .  .  .  the  vase  suddenly 
fell  down  and  broke  to  shivers.  I  was  numb 
with  horror,  and  stood  motionless  before  the 
fragments.  My  father  came  in,  saw  me,  and 
said,  '  There,  see  what  you  have  done ;  we 
shall  never  have  our  lovely  vase  again ;  now 
there  is  no  mending  it ! '  I  sobbed.  I  felt  I 
had  committed  a  crime. 

I  grew  into  a  man — and  thoughtlessly  broke 
a  vessel  a  thousand  times  more  precious.  .  .  , 
221 


FAUST 

In  vain  I  tell  myself  that  I  could  not  have 
dreamed  of  such  a  sudden  catastrophe,  that  it 
struck  me  too  with  its  suddenness,  that  I  did 
not  even  suspect  what  sort  of  nature  Vera 
was.  She  certainly  knew  how  to  be  silent  till 
the  last  minute.  I  ought  to  have  run  away 
directly  I  felt  that  I  loved  her,  that  I  loved  a 
married  woman.  But  I  stayed,  and  that  fair 
being  was  shattered,  and  with  despair  I  gaze 
at  the  work  of  my  own  hands. 

Yes,  Madame  Eltsov  took  jealous   care  of 
her  daughter.     She  guarded  her  to  the  end, 
*^nd  at  the  first  incautious  step  boreTieir  away 
with  her  to  the  grave  ! 

It  is  time  to  make  an  end.  ...  I  have  not 
told  one  hundredth  part  of  what  I  ought  to 
have ;  but  this  has  been  enough  for  me.  ,Let 
all  that  has  flamed  up  fall  back  again  into  the 
depths  of  my  heart.  ...  In  conclusion,  I  say 
to  you — one  conviction  I  have  gained  from  the 
experience  of  the  last  years — life  is  not  iest 
and  not  amusement ;  life  is  not  even  enjoy- 
ment .  .  .  life  is  hard  labour.  Renunciation, 
continual  renunciation  —  that  is  its  secret 
meaning,  its   solution.     Not  the  fulfilment  of 

cherished    dreams — and aspiratiDjis,    however 

lofty  they   may   be — the    fulfilment    of  duty, 
that  is  what  must  be  thexaxe.  nf  man.  ^^rtHoat'" 
laying  on  himself  chains,  the  iron  chains  of 
duty,  he  cannot  reach  without  a  fall  the  end  of 
his  career.     But  in  youth  we  think — the  freer 

222 


FAUST 

the  better,  the  further  one  will  get.  Youth 
may  be  excused  for  thinking  so.  But  it  is 
shameful  to  delude  oneself  when  the  stern 
face  of  truth  has  looked  one  in  the  eyes  at 
last. 

Good-bye !  In  old  days  I  would  have  added, 
be  happy ;  now  I  say  to  you,  try  to  live,  it  is 
not  so  easy  as  it  seems.  Think  of  me,  not  in 
hours  of  sorrow,  but  in  hours  of  contemplation, 
and  keep  in  your  heart  the  image  of  Vera  in 
all  its  pure  stainlessness.  ,  ,  ,  Once  more,, 
good-bye  ! — Yours,  P.  B, 

1855. 


223 


ACIA 


1 


ACTA 


At  that  time  I  was  five-and-twenty,  began 
N.  N., — it  was  in  days  long  past,  as  you  per- 
ceive. I  had  only  just  gained  my  freedom  and 
gone  abroad,  not  to  '  finish  my  education,'  as 
the  phrase  was  in  those  days  ;  I  simply  wanted 
to  have  a  look  at  God's  world.  I  was  young, 
and  in  good  health  and  spirits,  and  had  plenty 
of  money.  Troubles  had  not  yet  had  time  to 
gather  about  me.  I  existed  without  thought, 
did  as  I  liked,  lived  like  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
in  fact.  It  never  occurred  to  me  in  those  days 
that  man  is  not  a  plant,  and  cannot  go  on  living 
like  one  for  long.  Youth  will  eat  gilt  ginger- 
bread and  fancy  it 's  daily  bread  too  ;  but  the 
time  comes  when  you  're  in  want  of  dry  bread 
even.  There 's  no  need  to  go  into  that,  though. 
I  travelled  without  any  sort  of  aim,  without 
a  plan  ;  I  stopped  wherever  I  liked  the  place, 
and  went  on  again  directly  I  felt  a  desire  to 
see  new  faces — faces,  nothing  else.  I  was  in- 
terested in  people  exclusively  ;   I  hated  famous 

227 


ACIA 

monuments  and  museums  of  curiosities,  the 
very  sight  of  a  guide  produced  in  me  a  sense 
of  weariness  and  anger ;  I  was  almost  driven 
crazy  in  the  Dresden  '  Griine-Gewolbe.'  Nature 
affected  me  extremely,  but  I  did  not  care  for 
the  so-called  beauties  of  nature,  extraordinary 
mountains,  precipices,  and  waterfalls  ;  I  did  not 
like  nature  to  obtrude,  to  force  itself  upon  me. 
But  faces,  living  human  faces — people's  talk, 
and  gesture,  and  laughter — that  was  what  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  me.  In  a  crowd  I 
always  had  a  special  feeling  of  ease  and  com- 
fort. I  enjoyed  going  where  others  went, 
shouting  when  others  shouted,  and  at  the 
same  time  I  liked  to  look  at  the  others  shout- 
ing. It  amused  me  to  watch  people  .  .  .  though 
I  didn't  even  watch  them — I  simply  stared 
at  them  with  a  sort  of  delighted,  ever-eager 
curiosity.     But  I  am  diverging  again. 

And  so  twenty  years  ago  I  was  staying  in 
the  little  German  town  Z.,  on  the  left  bank 
of  the  Rhine.  I  was  seeking  solitude;  I  had 
just  been  stabbed  to  the  heart  by  a  young 
widow,  with  whom  I  had  made  acquaintance 
at  a  watering-place.  She  was  very  pretty  and 
clever,  and  flirted  with  every  one — with  me, 
too,  poor  sinner.  At  first  she  had  positively 
encouraged  me,  but  later  on  she  cruelly  wounded 
my  feelings,  sacrificing  me  for  a  red -faced 
Bavarian  lieutenant.  It  must  be  owned,  the 
wound  to  my  heart  was  not  a  very  deep  one ; 

228 


ACIA 

but  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  give  myself  up 
for  a  time  to  gloom  and  solitude — youth  will 
find  amusement  in  anything ! — and  so  I  settled 
at  Z. 

I  liked  the  little  town  for  its  situation  on  the 
slope  of  two  high  hills,  its  ruined  walls  and 
towers,  its  ancient  lime-trees,  its  steep  bridge 
over  the  little  clear  stream  that  falls  into  the 
Rhine,  and,  most  of  all,  for  its  excellent  wine. 
In  the  evening,  directly  after  sunset  (it  was 
June),  very  pretty  flaxen-haired  German  girls 
used  to  walk  about  its  narrow  streets  and 
articulate  '  Guten  Abend '  in  agreeable  voices 
on  meeting  a  stranger, — some  of  them  did  not 
go  home  even  when  the  moon  had  risen  behind 
the  pointed  roofs  of  the  old  houses,  and  the 
tiny  stones  that  paved  the  street  could  be  dis- 
tinctly seen  in  its  still  beams.  I  liked  wander- 
ing about  the  town  at  that  time ;  the  moon 
seemed  to  keep  a  steady  watch  on  it  from  the 
clear  sky  ;  and  the  town  was  aware  of  this 
steady  gaze,  and  stood  quiet  and  attentive, 
bathed  in  the  moonlight,  that  peaceful  light 
which  is  yet  softly  exciting  to  the  soul.  The 
cock  on  the  tall  Gothic  bell-tower  gleamed  a 
pale  gold,  the  same  gold  sheen  glimmered  in 
waves  over  the  black  surface  of  the  stream  ; 
slender  candles  (the  German  is  a  thrifty  soul !) 
twinkled  modestly  in  the  narrow  windows  under 
the  slate  roofs  ;  branches  of  vine  thrust  out  their 
twining  tendrils  mysteriously  from  behind  stone 

229 


ACTA 

walls ;  something  flitted  into  the  shade  by  the 
old-fashioned  well  in  the  three-cornered  market 
place  ;  the  drowsy  whistle  of  the  night  watch- 
man broke  suddenly  on  the  silence,  a  good- 
natured  dog  gave  a  subdued  growl,  while  the 
air  simply  caressed  the  face,  and  the  lime-trees 
smelt  so  sweet  that  unconsciously  the  lungs 
drew  in  deeper  and  deeper  breaths  of  it,  and 
the  name  '  Gretchen '  hung,  half  exclamation, 
half  question,  on  tFe  lips. 

The  little  town  of  Z.  lies  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  the  Rhine.  I  used  often  to  walk  to  look 
at  the  majestic  river,  and  would  spend  long 
hours  on  a  stone-seat  under  a  huge  solitary 
ash-tree,  musing,  not  without  some  mental 
effort,,  on  the  faithless  widow.  A  little  statue 
of  a  Madonna,  with  an  almost  childish  face 
and  a  red  heart,  pierced  with  swords,  on  her 
bosom,  peeped  mournfully  out  of  the  branches 
of  the  ash-tree.  On  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
river  was  the  little  town  L.,  somewhat  larger 
than  that  in  which  I  had  taken  up  my  quarters. 
One  evening  I  was  sitting  on  my  favourite  seat, 
gazing  at  the  sky,  the  river,  and  the  vine- 
yards. In  front  of  me  flaxen-headed  boys 
were  scrambling  up  the  sides  of  a  boat  that 
had  been  pulled  ashore,  and  turned  with  its 
tarred  bottom  upwards.  Sailing-boats  moved 
slowly  by  with  slightly  dimpling  sails ;  the 
greenish  waters  glided  by,  swelling  and  faintly 
rumbling.     All  of  a  sudden  sounds  of  music 

230 


ACIA 

drifted  across  to  me  ;  I  listened.  A  waltz  was 
being  played  in  the  town  of  L.  The  double 
bass  boomed  spasmodically,  the  sound  of  the 
fiddle  floated  across  indistinctly  now  and  then, 
the  flute  was  tootling  briskly. 

*  What's  that?'  I  inquired  of  an  old  man 
who  came  up  to  me,  in  a  plush  waistcoat,  blue 
stockings,  and  shoes  with  buckles. 

'  That,'  he  replied,  after  first  shifting  his  pipe 
from  one  corner  of  his  mouth  to  the  other, 
'is  the  students  come  over  from  B.  to  a  com- 
mersh.' 

'  I  '11  have  a  look  at  this  commersh,'  1  thought. 
*  I  've  never  been  over  to  L.  either.'  I  sought 
out  a  ferryman,  and  went  over  to  the  other 
side. 


231 


II 


Every  one,  perhaps,  may  not  know  what  such 
a  commersh  is.  It  is  a  solemn  festival  of  a 
special  sort,  at  which  students  meet  together 
who  are  of  one  district  or  brotherhood  (Lands- 
mannschaft).  Almost  all  who  take  part  in  the 
commersh  wear  the  time-honoured  costume 
of  German  students :  Hungarian  jackets,  big 
boots,  and  little  caps,  with  bands  round  them 
of  certain  colours.  The  students  generally 
assemble  to  a  dinner,  presided  over  by  their 
senior  member,  and  they  keep  up  the  festiv- 
ities till  morning — drinking,  singing  songs, 
*  Landesvater,'  '  Gaudeamus,'  etc.,  smoking,  and 
reviling  the  Philistines.  Sometimes  they  hire 
an  orchestra. 

Just  such  a  commersh  was  going  on  in  L., 
in  front  of  a  little  inn,  with  the  sign  of  the  Sun, 
in  the  garden  looking  on  to  the  street.  Flags 
were  flying  over  the  inn  and  over  the  garden ; 
the  students  were  sitting  at  tables  under  the 
pollard  lime-trees  ;  a  huge  bull-dog  was  lying 
under  one  of  the  tables ;  on  one  side,  in  an 
ivy-covered  arbour,  were  the  musicians,  playing 

232 


ACIA 

away  zealously,  and  continually  invigorating 
themselves  with  beer.  A  good  many  people 
had  collected  in  the  street,  before  the  low 
j  garden  wall ;  the  worthy  citizens  of  L.  could 
not  let  slip  a  chance  of  staring  at  visitors. 
I  too  mingled  in  the  crowd  of  spectators.  I 
enjoyed  watching  the  students'  faces ;  their 
embraces,  exclamations,  the  innocent  affecta- 
tions of  youth,  the  fiery  glances,  the  laughter 
without  cause — the  sweetest  laughter  in  the 
world — all  this  joyous  effervescence  of  young, 
fresh  life,  this  eager  pushing  forward — any- 
where, so  long  as  it's  forward — the  simple-hearted 
freedom  moved  me  and  stirred  me. 

'  Couldn't  I  join  them  ? '  I  was  wondering.  . .  . 

*  Acia,  have  you  had  enough  of  it  ? '  I  heard 
a  man's  voice  say  suddenly,  in  Russian,  just 
behind  me. 

'  Let 's  stay  a  little  longer,'  answered  another 
voice,  a  woman's,  in  the  same  language. 

I  turned  quickly  round.  .  .  .  My  eyes  fell  on 
a  handsome  young  man  in  a  peaked  cap  and  a 
loose  short  jacket.  He  had  on  his  arm  a  young 
girl,  not  very  tall,  wearing  a  straw  hat,  which 
concealed  all  the  upper  part  of  her  face. 

'You  are  Russians,'  fell  involuntarily  from 
my  lips. 

The  young  man  smiled  and  answered — 

'  Yes,  we  are  Russians.' 

*  I  never  expected  ...  in  such  an  out  of  the 
way  place,'  I  was  beginning — 

233 


ACIA 

'  Nor  did  we,'  he  interrupted  me.     *  Well,  so 
much   the  better.     Let   me   introduce  myself. 

My  name's   Gagin,   and    this   is   my '   he 

hesitated  for  anHiTstant,  *my  sister.     What  is 
your  name,  may  I  ask  ? ' 

I  told  him  my  name,  and  we  got  into  con- 
versation. I  found  out  that  Gagin  was  travel- 
ling, like  me,  for  his  amusement ;  that  he  had 
arrived  a  week  before  at  L.,  and  was  staying 
on  there.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  not  eager  to 
make  friends  with  Russians  abroad.  I  used 
to  recognise  them  a  long  way  off  by  their  walk, 
the  cut  of  their  clothes,  and,  most  of  all,  by 
the  expression  of  their  faces  which  was  self- 
complacent  and  supercilious,  often  imperious, 
but  would  all  of  a  sudden  change,  and  give 
place  to  an  expression  of  shyness  and  cautious- 
ness. .  .  .  The  whole  man  would  suddenly  be 
on  his  guard,  his  eyes  would  shift  uneasily.  . .  . 
*  Mercy  upon  us  1  Haven't  I  said  something 
silly  ;  aren't  they  laughing  at  me  ? '  those  rest- 
less eyes  seem  to  ask.  .  .  .  An  instant  later 
and  haughtiness  has  regained  its  sway  over  the 
physiognomy,  varied  at  times  by  a  look  of  dull 
blankness.  Yes,  I  avoided  Russians ;  but  I 
liked  Gagin  at  once.  There  are  faces  in  the 
world  of  that  happy  sort;  every  one  is  glad 
to  look  at  them,  as  though  they  warmed  or 
soothed  one  in  some  way.  Gagin  had  just  ( 
such  a  face — sweet  and  kind,  with  large  soft 
eyes  and  soft  curly  hair.     He  spoke  in  such  a 

234 


ACIA 

way  that  even  if  you  did  not  see  his  face,  you 
could  tell  by  the  mere  sound  of  his  voice  that 
he  was  smiling ! 

The  girl,  whom  he  had  called  his  sister, 
struck  me  at  the  first  glance  as  very  charm- 
ing. There  was  something  individual,  charac- 
teristic in  the  lines  of  her  dark,  round  face, 
with  its  small,  fine  nose,  almost  childish  cheeks, 
and  clear  black  eyes.  She  was  gracefully  built, 
but  hardly  seemed  to  have  reached  her  full 
development  yet.  She  was  not  in  the  least 
like  her  brother. 

*Will  you  come  home  with  us?'  Gagin  said 
to  me ;  *  I  think  we  've  stared  enough  at  the 
Germans.  Our  fellows,  to  be  sure,  would  have 
broken  the  windows,  and  smashed  up  the  chairs, 
but  these  chaps  are  very  sedate.  What  do  you 
say,  Acia,  shall  we  go  home  ? ' 

The  girl  nodded  her  head  in  assent. 

*We  live  outside  the  town,'  Gagin  continued, 
*in  a  vineyard,  in  a  lonely  little  house,  high  up. 
It 's  delightful  there,  you  '11  see.  Our  landlady 
promised  to  make  us  some  junket.  It  will 
soon  be  dark  now,  and  you  had  much  better 
cross  the  Rhine  by  moonlight' 

We  set  off.  Through  the  low  gates  of  the 
town  (it  was  enclosed  on  all  sides  by  an  ancient 
wall  of  cobble-stones,  even  the  barbicans  had 
not  all  fallen  into  ruins  at  that  time),  we  came 
out  into  the  open  country,  and  after  walking  a 
hundred  paces  beside  a  stone  wall,  we  came  to 

235 


ACIA 

a  standstill  before  a  little  narrow  gate.  Gagin 
opened  it,  and  led  us  along  a  steep  path  up  the 
mountain-side.  On  the  slopes  on  both  sides 
was  the  vineyard  ;  the  sun  had  just  set,  and  a 
delicate  rosy  flush  lay  on  the  green  vines,  on 
the  tall  poles,  on  the  dry  earth,  which  was 
dotted  with  big  and  little  stones,  and  on  the 
white  wall  of  the  little  cottage,  with  sloping 
black  beams,  and  four  bright  little  windows, 
which  stood  at  the  very  top  of  the  mountain 
we  had  climbed  up. 

'  Here  is  our  house ! '  cried  Gagin,  directly 
we  began  to  approach  the  cottage,  '  and  here 's 
the  landlady  bringing  in  the  junket.  Guten 
Abend,  Madame  !  .  .  .  We  '11  come  in  to  supper 
directly ;  but  first,'  he  added, '  look  round  .  .  , 
isn't  it  a  view  ? ' 

The  view  certainly  was  marvellous.  The 
Rhine  lay  at  our  feet,  all  silvery  between  its 
green  banks ;  in  one  place  it  glowed  with  the 
purple  and  gold  of  the  sunset  The  little  town, 
nestling  close  to  the  river-bank,  displayed  all 
its  streets  and  houses  ;  sloping  hills  and 
meadows  ran  in  wide  stretches  in  all  direc- 
tions. Below  it  was  fine,  but  above  was  finer 
still ;  I  was  specially  impressed  by  the  depth 
and  purity  of  the  sky,  the  radiant  transparency 
of  the  atmosphere.  The  fresh,  light  air  seemed 
softly  quivering  and  undulating,  as  though 
it  too  were  more  free  and  at  ease  on  the 
heights. 

236 


ACIA 

*You  have  chosen  delightful  lodgings/  I 
observed.  , 

*  It  was  Acia  found  it,'  answered  Gagin ; 
*  come,  Acia,'  he  went  on,  '  see  after  the  supper. 
Let  everything  be  brought  out  here.  We  will 
have  supper  in  the  open  air.  We  can  hear  the 
music  better  here.  Have  you  ever  noticed,'  he 
added,  turning  to  me,  *a  waltz  is  often  poor 
stuff  close  by — vulgar,  coarse  music — but  in 
the  distance,  it 's  exquisite  !  it  fairly  stirs  every 
romantic  chord  within  one.' 

Acia  (her  real  name  was  Anna,  but  Gagin 
called  her  Acia,  and  you  must  let  me  do  the 
same),  went  into  the  house,  and  soon  came 
back  with  the  landlady.  They  were  carrying 
together  a  big  tray,  with  a  bowl  of  junket, 
plates,  spoons,  sugar,  fruit,  and  bread.  We  sat 
down  and  began  supper.  Acia  took  off  her 
hat ;  her  black  hair  cropped  short  and  combed, 
like  a  boy's,  fell  in  thick  curls  on  her  neck  and 
ears.  At  first  she  was  shy  of  me ;  but  Gagin 
said  to  her — 

*  Come,  Acia,  come  out  of  your  shell !  he 
won't  bite.' 

She  smiled,  and  a  little  while  after  she  began 
talking  to  me  of  her  own  accord.  I  had  never 
seen  such  a  restless  creature.  She  did  not  sit 
still  for  a  single  instant;  she  got  up,  ran  off 
into  the  house,  and  ran  back  again,  hummed 
in  an  undertone,  often  laughed,  and  in  a  very 
strange  way ;  she  seemed  to  laugh,  not  at  what 

237 


ACIA 

she  heard,  but  at  jhe  different  ideasthat  crossed 
her  mind.  Her  big  eyes  looked  out  boldly, 
brightly,  directly,  but  sometimes  her  eyelids 
faintly  drooped,  and  then  their  expression 
instantaneously  became  deep  and  tender. 

We  chatted  away  for  a  couple  of  hours.  The 
daylight  had  long  died  away,  and  the  evening 
glow,  at  first  fiery,  then  clear  and  red,  then 
pale  and  dim,  had  slowly  melted  away  and 
passed  into  night,  but  our  conversation  still 
went  on,  as  quiet  and  peaceful  as  the  air  around 
us.  Gagin  ordered  a  bottle  of  Rhine  wine  ;  we 
drank  it  between  us,  slowly  and  deliberately. 
The  music  floated  across  to  us  as  before,  its 
strains  seemed  sweeter  and  tenderer ;  lights 
were  burning  in  the  town  and  on  the  river. 
Acia  suddenly  let  her  head  fall,  so  that  her 
curls  dropped  into  her  eyes,  ceased  speaking, 
and  sighed.  Then  she  said  she  was  sleepy, 
and  went  indoors.  I  saw,  though,  that  she 
stood  a  long  while  at  the  unopened  window 
without  lighting  a  candle.  At  last  the  moon 
rose  and  began  shining  upon  the  Rhine ;  every- 
thing turned  to  light  and  darkness,  everything 
was  transformed,  even  the  wine  in  our  cut-glass 
tumblers  gleamed  with  a  mysterious  light. 
The  wind  drooped,  as  it  were,  folded  its  wings 
and  sank  to  rest ;  the  fragrant  warmth  of  night 
rose  in  whiffs  from  the  earth. 

'It's  time  I  was  going!'  I  cried,  'or  else 
perhaps,  there  '11  be  no  getting  a  ferryman.' 

238 


ACIA 

*  Yes,  it  *s  time  to  start,'  Gagin  assented. 
We   went   down   the    path.      Suddenly  we 

heard  the  rolling  of  the  stones  behind  us  ;  it 
was  Acia  coming  after  us. 

*  Aren't  you  asleep  ?  '  asked  her  brother ; 
but,  without  answering  a  word,  she  ran  by  us. 
The  last,  smouldering  lamps,  lighted  by  the 
students  in  the  garden  of  the  inn,  threw  a  light 
on  the  leaves  of  the  trees  frofn  below,  giving 
them  a  fantastic  and  festive  look.  We  found 
Acia  at  the  river's  edge ;  she  was  talking  to  a 
ferryman.  I  jumped  into  the  boat,  and  said 
good-bye  to  my  new  friends.  Gagin  promised 
to  pay  me  a  visit  next  day  ;  I  pressed  his  hand, 
and  held  out  my  hand  to  Acia  ;  but  she  only 
looked  at  me  and  shook  her  head.  The  boat 
pushed  off  and  floated  on  the  rapid  river.  The 
ferryman,  a  sturdy  old  man,  buried  his  oars  in 
the  dark  water,  and  pulled  with  great  effort. 

'  You  are  in  the  streak  of  moonlight,  you 
have  broken  it  up,'  Acia  shouted  to  me. 

I  dropped  my  eyes  ;  the  waters  eddied  round 
the  boat,  blacker  than  ever. 

*  Good-bye  ! '  I  heard  her  voice. 

'  Till  to-morrow,'  Gagin  said  after  her. 

The  boat  reached  the  other  side.  I  got  out 
and  looked  about  me.  No  one  could  be  seen 
now  on  the  opposite  bank.  The  streak  of 
moonlight  stretched  once  more  like  a  bridge  of 
gold  right  across  the  river.  Like  a  farewell, 
the    air    of   the    old-fashioned    Lanner  waltz 

239 


ACIA 

drifted  across.  Gagin  was  right ;  I  felt  every 
chord  in  my  heart  vibrating  in  response  to  its 
seductive  melody.  I  started  homewards  across 
the  darkening  fields,  drinking  in  slowly  the 
fragrant  air,  and  reached  my  room,  deeply 
stirred  by  the  voluptuous  languor  of  vague, 
endless  anticipation.  I  felt  happy.  .  .  .  But 
why  was  I  happy  ?  I  desired  nothing,  I  thought 
of  nothing.  ...  I  was  happy. 

Almost  laughing  from  excess  of  sweet,  light- 
hearted  emotions,  I  dived  into  my  bed,  and 
was  just  closing  my  eyes,  when  all  at  once  it 
struck  me  that  I  had  not  once  all  the  evening 
remembered  my  cruel  charmer.  .  .  .  '  What 's 
the  meaning  of  it?'  I  wondered  to  myself;  *is 
it  possible  I  'm  not  in  love  ? '  But  though  I 
asked  myself  this  question,  I  fell  asleep,  I  think, 
at  once,  like  a  baby  in  its  cradle. 


240 


III 


Next  morning  (I  was  awake,  but  had  not  yet 
begun  to  get  up),  I  heard  the  tap  of  a  stick  on 
my  window,  and  a  voice  I  knew  at  once  for 
Gagin's  hummed — 

*  Art  thou  asleep  ?  with  the  guitar 
Will  I  awaken  thee  .  .  .' 

I  made  haste  to  open  the  door  to  him. 

*  Good-morning,'  said  Gagin,  coming  in ; 
*  I  'm  disturbing  you  rather  early,  but  only  see 
what  a  morning  it  is.  Fresh,  dewy,  larks 
singing  .  .  .' 

With  his  curly,  shining  hair,  his  open  neck 
and  rosy  cheeks,  he  was  fresh  as  the  morning 
himself. 

I  dressed  ;  we  went  out  into  the  garden,  sat 
down  on  a  bench,  ordered  coffee,  and  proceeded 
to  talk.  Gagin  told  me  his  plans  for  the  future  ; 
he  possessed  a  moderate  fortune,  was  not  depen- 
dent on  any  one,  and  wanted  to  devote  himself 
to  painting.  He  only  regretted  that  he  had 
not  had  more  sense  sooner,  but  had  wasted  so 
much  time  doing  nothing.     I  too  referred  to 

241  Q 


ACIA 

my  projects,  and  incidentally  confided  to  him 
the  secret  of  my  unhappy  love.  He  listened 
to  me  amiably,  but,  so  far  as  I  could  observe, 
I  did  not  arouse  in  him  any  very  strong  sym- 
pathy with  my  passion.  Sighing  once  or  twice 
after  me,  for  civility's  sake,  Gagin  suggested 
that  I  should  go  home  with  him  and  look  at 
his  sketches.     I  agreed  at  once. 

We  did  not  find  Acia.  She  had,  the  land- 
lady told  us,  gone  to  the  '  ruin.'  A  mile  and 
a  half  from  L.  were  the  remains  of  a  feudal 
castle.  Gagin  showed  me  all  his  canvases. 
In  his  sketches  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
life  and  truth,  a  certain  breadth  and  free- 
dom ;  but  not  one  of  them  was  finished,  and 
the  drawing  struck  me  as  careless  and  in- 
correct. I  gave  candid  expression  to  my 
opinion. 

'Yes,  yes,'  he  assented,  with  a  sigh;  *  you 're 
right ;  it 's  all  very  poor  and  crude  ;  what 's  to 
be  done  ?  I  haven't  had  the  training  I  ought 
to  have  had  ;  besides,  one's  cursed  Slavonic 
slackness  gets  the  better  of  one.  While  one 
dreams  of  work,  one  soars  away  in  eagle 
flight ;  one  fancies  one 's  going  to  shake  the 
earth  out  of  its  place — but  when  it  comes 
to  doing  anything,  one's  weak  and  weary 
directly.' 

I  began  trying  to  cheer  him  up,  but  he  waved 

me  off,  and  bundling  his  sketches  up  together, 

threw  them  on  the  sofa. 

242 


ACIA 

'  If  I  Ve  patience,  something  may  be  made  of 
me,'  he  muttered  ;  '  if  I  haven't,  I  shall  remain 
a  half-baked  noble  amateur.  Come,  we'd 
better  be  looking  for  Acia.' 

We  went  out. 


243 


IV 


The  road  to  the  ruin  went  twisting  down 
the  steep  incline  into  a  narrow  wooded  valley ; 
at  the  bottom  ran  a  stream,  noisily  threading 
its  way  through  the  pebbles,  as  though  in  haste 
to  flow  into  the  great  river,  peacefully  shining 
beyond  the  dark  ridge  of  the  deep  indented 
mountain  crest.  Gagin  called  my  attention  to 
some  places  where  the  light  fell  specially  finely  ; 
one  could  see  in  his  words  that,  even  if  not  a 
painter,  he  was  undoubtedly  an  artist.  The 
ruin  soon  came  into  sight.  On  the  very  summit 
of  the  naked  rock  rose  a  square  tower,  black  all 
over,  still  strong,  but,  as  it  were,  cleft  in  two  by 
a  longitudinal  crack.  Mossy  walls  adjoined 
the  tower ;  here  and  there  ivy  clung  about  it ; 
wind-twisted  bushes  hung  down  from  the  grey 
battlements  and  crumbling  arches.  A  stray 
path  led  up  to  the  gates,  still  standing  entire. 
We  had  just  reached  them,  when  suddenly  a 
girl's  figure  darted  up  in  front  of  us,  ran  swiftly 
over  a  heap  of  debris,  and  stood  on  the  project- 
ing part  of  the  wall,  right  over  the  precipice. 
*  Why,  it 's  Acia  ! '   cried  Gagin  ;   '  the  mad 

244 


ACTA 

thing.*  We  went  through  the  gates  and  found 
ourselves  in  a  small  courtyard,  half  overgrown 
with  crab-apple  trees  and  nettles.  On  the  pro- 
jecting ledge,  Acia  actually  was  sitting.  She 
turned  and  faced  us,  laughing,  but  did  not  move. 
Gagin  shook  his  finger  at  her,  while  I  loudly 
reproached  her  for  her  recklessness. 

*  That 's  enough,'  Gagin  said  to  me  in  a  whis- 
per ;  '  don't  tease  her  ;  you  don't  know  what  she 
is  ;  she  'd  very  likely  climb  right  up  on  to  the 
tower.  Look,  you  'd  better  be  admiring  the 
intelligence  of  the  people  of  these  parts  ! ' 

I  looked  round.  In  a  corner,  ensconced  in 
a  tiny,  wooden  hut,  an  old  woman  was  knit- 
ting a  stocking,  and  looking  at  us  through  her 
spectacles.  She  sold  beer,  gingerbread,  and 
seltzer  water  to  tourists.  We  seated  ourselves 
on  a  bench,  and  began  drinking  some  fairly  cold 
beer  out  of  heavy  pewter  pots.  Acia  still  sat 
without  moving,  with  her  feet  tucked  under  her, 
and  a  muslin  scarf  wrapped  round  her  head  ; 
her  graceful  figure  stood  out  distinctly  and 
finely  against  the  clear  sky  ;  but  I  looked  at 
her  with  a  feeling  of  hostility.  The  evening 
before  I  had  detected  something  forced,  some- 
thing not  quite  natural  about  her.  ...  *  She 's 
trying  to  impress  us,'  I  thought ;  '  whatever  for  ? 
What  a  childish  trick.'  As  though  guessing 
my  thoughts,  she  suddenly  turned  a  rapid, 
searching  glance  upon  me,  laughed  again, 
leaped  in  two  bounds  from  the  wall,  and  going 

245 


ACIA 

Up  to  the  old  woman,  asked  her  for  a  glass  of 
water. 

'Do  you  think  I  am  thirsty?'  she  said, 
addressing  her  brother;  'no;  there  are  some 
flowers  on  the  walls,  which  must  be  watered.' 

Gagin  made  her  no  reply  ;  and  with  the  glass 
in  her  hand,  she  began  scrambling  over  the 
ruins,  now  and  then  stopping,  bending  down, 
and  with  comic  solemnity  pouring  a  few  drops 
of  water,  which  sparkled  brightly  in  the  sun. 
Her  movements  were  very  charming,  but  I  felt, 
as  before,  angry  with  her,  even  while  I  could 
not  help  admiring  her  lightness  and  agility. 
At  one  dangerous  place  she  purposely  screamed, 
and  then  laughed.  ...  I  felt  still  more  annoyed 
with  her. 

*  Why,  she  climbs  like  a  goat,'  the  old  woman 
mumbled,  turning  for  an  instant  from  her 
stocking. 

At  last,  Acia  had  emptied  the  glass,  and 
with  a  saucy  swing  she  walked  back  to  us.  A 
queer  smile  was  faintly  twitching  at  her  eye- 
brows, nostrils,  and  lips;  her  dark  eyes  were 
screwed  up  with  a  half  insolent,  half  merry 
look. 

'  You  consider  my  behaviour  improper,'  her 
face  seemed  to  say ;  *  all  the  same,  I  know 
you're  admiring  me.' 

*  Well  done,  Acia,  well  done,'  Gagin  said  in  a 
low  voice. 

She  seemed  all  at  once  overcome  with  shame, 

246 


ACIA 

he  dropped  her  long  eyelashes,  and  sat  down 
beside  us  with  a  guilty  air.  At  that  moment 
I  got  for  the  first  time  a  good  look  at  her  face, 
the  most  changeable  face  I  had  ever  seen.  A 
few  instants  later  it  had  turned  quite  pale,  and 
wore  an  intense,  almost  mournful  expression, 
its  very  features  seemed  larger,  sterner,  simpler. 
She  completely  subsided.  We  walked  round 
the  ruins  (Acia  followed  us),  and  admired  the 
views.  Meanwhile  it  was  getting  near  dinner- 
time. As  he  paid  the  old  woman,  Gagin  asked 
for  another  mug  of  beer,  and  turning  to  me, 
cried  with  a  sly  face — 

*  To  the  health  of  the  lady  of  your  heart.' 

*  Why,  has  he — have  you  such  a  lady  ? ' 
Acia  asked  suddenly. 

'  Why,  who  hasn't  ? '  retorted  Gagin. 

Acia  seemed  pensive  for  an  instant ;  then 
her  face  changed,  the  challenging,  almost  inso- 
lent smile  came  back  once  more. 

On  the  way  home  she  kept  laughing,  and 
was  more  mischievous  again.  She  broke  off  a 
long  branch,  put  it  on  her  shoulder,  like  a  gun, 
and  tied  her  scarf  round  her  head.  I  remember 
we  met  a  numerous  family  of  light-haired 
affected  English  people  ;  they  all,  as  though  at 
a  word  of  command,  looked  Acia  up  and  down 
with  their  glassy  eyes  in  chilly  amazement, 
while  she  started  singing  aloud,  as  though  in 
defiance  of  them.  When  she  reached  home, 
she  went  straight  to  her  own  room,  and  only 

247 


ACIA 

appeared  when  dinner  was  on  the  table.  She 
was  dressed  in  her  best  clothes,  had  carefully 
arranged  her  hair,  laced  herself  in  at  the  waist, 
and  put  on  gloves.  At  dinner  she  behaved 
very  decorously,  almost  affectedly,  hardly  tast- 
ing anything,  and  drinking  water  out  of  a  wine- 
glass. She  obviously  wanted  to  show  herself 
in  a  new  character  before  me — the  character  of 
a  well-bred,  refined  young  lady.  Gagin  did 
not  check  her ;  one  could  see  that  it  was  his 
habit  to  humour"  her  in  everything.  He  merely 
glanced  at  me  good-humouredly  now  and  then, 
and  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  though 
he  would  say — '  She 's  a  baby  ;  don't  be  hard 
on  her.'  Directly  dinner  was  over,  Acia  got 
up,  made  us  a  curtsey,  and  putting  on  her  hat, 
asked  Gagin  if  she  might  go  to  see  Frau  Luise. 
'  Since  when  do  you  ask  leave,'  he  answered 
with  his  invariable  smile,  a  rather  embarrassed 
smile  this  time  ;  '  are  you  bored  with  us  ? ' 

*  No ;  but  I  promised  Frau  Luise  yesterday 
to  go  and  see  her ;  besides,  I  thought  you 
would  like  better  being  alone.  Mr.  N.  (she 
indicated  me)  will  tell  you  something  more 
about  himself.' 

She  went  out. 

*  Frau  Luise,'  Gagin  began,  trying  to  avoid 
meeting  my  eyes,  '  is  the  widow  of  a  former 
burgomaster  here,  a  good-natured,  but  silly  old 
woman.  She  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Acia. 
Acia   has  a  passion  for  making  friends  with 

248 


ACIA 

people  of  a  lower  class;  I've  noticed,  it's 
always  pride  that 's  at  the  root  of  that.  She 's 
pretty  well  spoilt  with  me,  as  you  see/  he  went 
on  after  a  brief  pause:  *but  what  wouli  you 
have  me  do?  I  can't  be  exacting  wityany 
one,  and  with  her  less  than  any  one  else.  I  am 
bound  not  to  be  hard  on  her.' 

I  was  silent.  Gagin  changed  the  conversa- 
tion. The  more  I  saw  of  him,  the  more  strongly 
was  I  attracted  by  him.  I  soon  understood 
him.  His  was  a  typically  Russian  nature, 
truthful,  honest,  simple ;  but,  unhappily,  with- 
out energy,  lacking  tenaci^y^nd  mward_  fire^.. 
Youth  was  not  boiling  over  within  him,  but 
shone  with  a  subdued  light.  He  was  very 
sweet  and  clever,  but  I  could  not  picture 
to  myself  what  he  would  become  in  ripe 
manhood.  An  artist  .  .  .  without  intense, 
incessant  toil,  there  is  no  being  an  artist  .  .  . 
and  as  for  toil,  I  mused,  watching  his  soft  fea- 
tures, listening  to  his  slow  deliberate  talk,  *  no, 
you  '11  never  toil,  you  don't  know  how  to  put 
pressure  on  yourself  But  not  to  love  him  was 
an  impossibility  ;  one's  heart  was  simply  drawn 
to  him.  We  spent  four  hours  together,  some- 
times sitting  on  the  sofa,  sometimes  walking 
slowly  up  and  down  before  the  house  ;  and  in 
those  four  hours  we  became  intimate  friends. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  it  was  time  for  me 
to  go  home.     Acia  had  not  yet  come  back. 

'  What  a  reckless  thing  she  is,'  said  Gagin. 

249 


ACIA 

'Shall  I  come  along  with  you?  We'll  turn  in 
at  Frau  Luise's  on  the  way.  I  '11  ask  whether 
she 's  there.     It 's  not  far  out  of  the  way.' 

We  went  down  into  the  town,  and  turning  off 
into  a  narrow,  crooked  little  by-street,  stopped 
before  a  house  four  storeys  high,  and  with  two 
windows  abreast  in  each  storey.  The  second 
storey  projected  beyond  the  first,  the  third  and 
fourth  stood  out  still  further  than  the  second  ; 
the  whole  house,  with  its  crumbling  carving,  its 
two  stout  columns  below,  its  pointed  brick  roof, 
and  the  projecting  piece  on  the  attic  poking 
out  like  a  beak,  looked  like  a  huge,  crouching 
bird. 

'  Acia,'  shouted  Gagin,  '  are  you  here  ? ' 

A  window,  with  a  light  in  it  in  the  third 
storey,  rattled  and  opened,  and  we  saw  Acia's 
dark  head.  Behind  her  peered  out  the  tooth- 
less and  dim-sighted  face  of  an  old  German 
woman. 

'  I  'm  here,'  said  Acia,  leaning  roguishly  out 
with  her  elbows  on  the  window-sill ;  *  I  'm  quite 
contented  here.  Hullo  there,  catch,' she  added, 
flinging  Gagin  a  twig  of  geranium ;  *  imagine 
I  'm  the  lady  of  your  heart.' 

Frau  Luise  laughed. 

*  N.  is  going,'  said  Gagin  ;  '  he  wants  to  say 
good-bye  to  you.' 

*  Really,'  said  Acia ;  *  in  that  case  give  him 

my  geranium,  and  I  '11  come  back  directly.' 

She  slammed-to  the  window  and  seemed  to 

250 


ACIA 

be  kissing  Frau  Luise.  Gagin  offered  me  the 
twig  without  a  word.  I  put  it  in  my  pocket  in 
silence,  went  on  to  the  ferry,  and  crossed  over 
to  the  other  side  of  the  river. 

I  remember  I  went  home  thinking  of  nothing 
in  particular,  but  with  a  strange  load  at  my 
heart,  when  I  was  suddenly  struck  by  a  strong 
familiar  scent,  rare  in  Germany.  I  stood  still, 
and  saw  near  the  road  a  small  bed  of  hemp. 
Its  fragrance  of  the  steppes  instantaneously 
brought  my  own  country  to  my  mind,  and 
stirred  a  passionate  longing  for  it  in  my 
heart.  I  longed  to  breathe  Russian  air,  to 
tread  on  Russian  soil.  '  What  am  I  doing  here, 
why  am  I  trailing  about  in  foreign  countries 
among  strangers  ?  '  I  cried,  and  the  dead  weight 
I  had  felt  at  my  heart  suddenly  passed  into  a 
bitter,  stinging  emotion.  I  reached  home  in 
quite  a  different  frame  of  mind  from  the  even- 
ing before.  I  felt  almost  enraged,  and  it  was 
a  long  while  before  I  could  recover  my  equan- 
imity. I  was  beset  by  a  feeling  of  anger  I 
could  not  explain.  At  last  I  sat  down,  and 
bethinking  myself  of  my  faithless  widow  (I 
wound  up  every  day  regularly  by  dreaming,  as 
in  duty  bound,  of  this  lady),  I  pulled  out  one 
of  her  letters.  But  I  did  not  even  open  it ;  my 
thoughts  promptly  took  another  turn.  I  began 
dreaming — dreaming  of  Acia.  I  recollected 
that  Gagin  had,  in  the  course  of  conversation, 
hinted  at  certain   difficulties,  obstacles  in  the 

251 


ACTA 

way  of  his  returning  to  Russia.  ...  *  Come,  is 
she  his  sister  ?  *  I  said  aloud. 

I  undressed,  got  into  bed,  and  tried  to  get  to 
sleep ;  but  an  hour  later  I  was  sitting  up  again 
in  bed,  propped  up  with  my  elbow  on  the  pillow, 
and  was  once  more  thinking  about  this  *  whim- 
sical chit  of  a  girl  with  the  affected  laugh.'  .  .  . 
'She 's  the  figure  of  the  little  Galatea  of  Raphael 
in  the  Farnesino,'  I  murmured:  'yes;  and 
she's  not  his  sister ' 


The  widow's  letter  lay  tranquil  and  undis- 
rbe< 
light. 


turbed  on  the  floor,  a  white  patch  in  the  moon-     I 


252 


Next  morning   I   went  again  to  L .    I 

persuaded  myself  I  wanted  to  see  Gagin,  but 
secretly  I  was  tempted  to  go  and  see  what 
Acia  would  do,  whether  she  would  be  as 
whimsical  as  on  the  previous  day.  I  found 
them  both  in  their  sitting-room,  and  strange 
to  say — possibly  because  I  had  been  thinking 
so  much  that  night  and  morning  of  Russia — 
Acia  struck  me  as  a  typically  Russian  girl, 
and  a  girl  of  the  humbler  class,  almost  like 
a  Russian  servant-girl.  She  wore  an  old 
gown,  she  had  combed  her  hair  back  behind 
her  ears,  and  was  sitting  still  as  a  mouse  at 
the  window,  working  at  some  embroidery  in 
a  frame,  quietly,  demurely,  as  though  she  had 
never  done  anything  else  all  her  life.  She  said 
scarcely  anything,  looked  quietly  at  her  work, 
and  her  features  wore  such  an  ordinary, 
commonplace  expression,  that  I  could  not 
help  thinking  of  our  Katias  and  Mashas  at 
home  in  Russia.  To  complete  the  resem- 
blance she  started  singing  in  a  low  voice, 
*  Little  mother,  little  dove.*     I  looked  at  her 

253 


ACIA 

little  face,  which  was  rather  yellow  and  listless, 
I  thought  of  my  dreams  of  the  previous  night, 
and  I  felt  a  pang  of  regret  for  something. 

It  was  exquisite  weather.  Gagin  announced 
that  he  was  going  to  make  a  sketch  to-day 
from  nature  ;  I  asked  him  if  he  would  let  me 
go  with  him,  whether  I  shouldn't  be  in  his  way. 

*0n  the  contrary,'  he  assured  me;  *you  may 
give  me  some  good  advice.' 

He  put  on  a  hat  a  la  Vandyck,  and  a  blouse, 
took  a  canvas  under  his  arm,  and  set  out ;  I 
sauntered  after  him.  Acia  stayed  at  home. 
Gagin,  as  he  went  out,  asked  her  to  see  that 
the  soup  wasn't  too  thin  ;  Acia  promised  to 
look  into  the  kitchen.  Gagin  went  as  far  as 
the  valley  I  knew  already,  sat  down  on  a  stone, 
and  began  to  sketch  a  hollow  oak  with  spread- 
ing branches.  I  lay  on  the  grass  and  took  out 
a  book  ;  but  I  didn't  read  two  pages,  and  he 
simply  spoiled  a  sheet  of  paper ;  we  did  little 
else  but  talk,  and  as  far  as  I  am  competent  to 
judge,  we  talked  rather  cleverly  and  subtly 
of  the  right  method  of  working,  of  what  we 
must  avoid,  and  what  one  must  cling  to,  and 
wherein  lay  the  significance  of  the  artist  in  our 
age.  Gagin,  at  last,  decided  that  he  was  not 
in  the  mood  to-day,  and  lay  down  beside  me 
on  the  grass.  And  then  our  youthful  eloquence 
flowed  freely ;  fervent,  pensive,  enthusiastic  by 
turns,  but  consisting  almost  always  of  those 
vague  generalities  into  which  a  Russian  is  so 

254 


ACIA 

ready  to  expand.  When  we  had  talked  to 
our  hearts'  content,  and  were  full  of  a  feeling 
of  satisfaction  as  though  we  had  got  something 
done,  achieved  some  sort  of  success,  we  returned 
home.  I  found  Acia  just  as  I  had  left  her ; 
however  assiduously  I  watched  her  I  could  not 
detect  a  shade  of  coquetry,  nor  a  sign  of  an 
intentionally  assumed  r61e  in  her ;  this  time  it 
was  impossible  to  reproach  her  for  artificiality. 

*  Aha ! '  said  Gagin  ;  *  she  has  imposed  fast- 
ing and  penance  on  herself.' 

Towards  evening  she  yawned  several  times 
with  obvious  genuineness,  and  went  early  to 
her  room.  I  myself  soon  said  good-bye  to 
Gagin,  and  as  I  went  home,  I  had  no  dreams 
of  any  kind  ;  that  day  was  spent  in  sober  sen- 
sations. I  remember,  however,  as  I  lay  down 
to  sleep,  I  involuntarily  exclaimed  aloud — 

'  What  a  chameleon  the  girl  is  ! '  and  after  a 
moment's  thought  I  added ;  *  anyway,  she 's 
not  his  sister.' 


255 


VI 


A  WHOLE  fortnight  passed  by.     I  visited  the 

Gagins  every  day.     Acia  seemed  to  avoid  me, 

but   she   did   not   permit   herself  one   of  the 

mischievous  tricks  which  had  so  surprised  me 

the  first  two  days  of  our  acquaintance.      She 

seemed  secretly  wounded  or  embarrassed  ;  she 

even  laughed  less  than  at  first.     I  watched  her 

with  curiosity. 

She  spoke  French  and  German  fairly  well ; 

but  one  could  easily  see,  in  everything  she  did, 

that  she  had  not  from  childhood  been  brought 

up  under  a  woman's  care,  and  that  she  had 

had   a   curious,  irregular   education   that   had 

nothing  in  common  with  Gagin's  bringing  up. 

He  was,  in  spite  of  the  Vandyck  hat  and  the 

blouse,  so  thoroughly  every  inch  of  him  the 

soft,  half-effeminate  Great  Russian  nph]^^") 

while  she  was  not  like  the  young  girl  of'the 

same  class.     In  all  her  movements  there  was 

a  certain   restlessness.      The  wild   stock   had 

not  long  been  grafted,  the  new  wine  was  still 

fermenting.     By  nature  modest  and  timid,  she 

was  exasperated  by  her  own  shyness,  and  in 

256 


ACIA 

her  exasperation  tried  to  force  herself  to  be 
bold  and  free  and  easy,  in  which  she  was  not 
always  successful.  I  sometimes  began  to  talk 
to  her  about  her  life  in  Russia,  about  her  past ; 
she  answered  my  questions  reluctantly.  1 
found  out,  however,  that  before  going  abroad 
she  had  lived  a  long  while  in  the  country.  I 
came  upon  her  once,  intent  on  a  book,  alone. 
With  her  head  on  her  hands  and  her  fingers 
thrust  into  her  hair,  she  was  eagerly  devouring 
the  lines. 

'Bravo!'  I  said,  going  up  to  her;  *how 
studious  you  are ! '  She  raised  her  head,  and 
looked  gravely  and  severely  at  me.  '  You 
think  I  can  do  nothing  but  laugh/  she  said, 
and  was  about  to  go  away.  .  .  . 

I  glanced  at  the  title  of  the  book ;  it  was 
some  French  novel. 

*  I  can't  commend  your  choice,  though,'  I 
observed. 

'  What  am  I  to  read  then  ? '  she  cried  ;  and 
flinging  the  book  on  the  table,  she  added — *  so 
I  'd  better  go  and  play  the  fool,'  and  ran  out 
into  the  garden. 

That  same  day,  in  the  evening,  I  was  reading 
Gagin  Hermann  und  Dorothea.  Acia  at  first 
kept  fidgeting  about  us,  then  all  at  once  she 
stopped,  listened,  softly  sat  down  by  me,  and 
heard  the  reading  through  to  the  end.  The 
next  day  I  hardly  knew  her  again,  till  I 
guessed  it  had  suddenly  occurred  to  her  to  be 

257  R 


ACTA 

as  domestic  and  discreet  as  Dorothea.  In  fact  I 
saw  her  as  a  half-enigmatic  creature.  Vain,  self- 
conscious  to  the  last  degree,  she  attracted  me 
even  when  I  was  irritated  by  her.  Of  one  thing 
only  I  felt  more  and  more  convinced  ;  and  that 
was,  that  she  was  not  Gagin's  sister.  His 
manner  with  her  was  not  like  a  brother's,  it  was 
too  affectionate,  too  considerate,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  little  constrained. 

A  curious  incident  apparently  confirmed  my 
suspicions. 

One  evening,  when  I  reached  the  vineyard 
where  the  Gagins  lived,  I  found  the  gate 
fastened.  Without  losing  much  time  in 
deliberation,  I  made  my  way  to  a  broken- 
down  place  I  had  noticed  before  in  the  hedge 
and  jumped  over  it.  Not  far  from  this  spot 
there  was  a  little  arbour  of  acacias  on  one  side 
of  the  path.  I  got  up  to  it  and  was  just  about 
to  pass  it.  .  .  .  Suddenly  I  was  struck  by 
Acia's  voice  passionately  and  tearfully  uttering 
the  following  words : 

*  No,  I  '11  love  no  one  but  you,  no,  no,  I  will 
love  you  only,  for  ever!* 

'  Come,  Acia,  calm  yourself,'  said  Gagin ; 
*  you  know  I  believe  you.' 

Their  voices  came  from  the  arbour.  I  could 
see  them  both  through  the  thin  net-work  of 
leaves.     They  did  not  notice  me.  ^ 

'  You,  you  only,'  she  repeated,  and  she 
flung  herself  on   his   neck,  and   with   broken 

258 


ACIA 

sobs  began  kissing  him  and   clinging  to  his 
breast. 

'  Come,  come/  he  repeated,  lightly  passing 
his  hand  over  her  hair. 

For  a  few  instants  I  stood  motionless  .  .  . 
Suddenly  I  started — should  I  go  up  to  them? 
— '  On  no  consideration,'  flashed  through  my 
head.  With  rapid  footsteps  I  turned  back  to 
the  hedge,  leaped  over  it  into  the  road,  and 
almost  running,  went  home.  I  smiled,  rubbed 
my  hands,  wondered  at  the  chance  which  had 
so  suddenly  confirmed  my  surmises  (I  did  not 
for  one  instant  doubt  their  accuracy)  and  yet 
there  was  a  great  bitterness  in  my  heart. 
What  accomplished  hypocrites  they  are, 
though,  I  thought.  And  what  for?  Why 
should   he   try  to   take   me   in?     I    shouldn't 

i  have  expected   it   of  him  .  .   ,   And   what   a 

I  touching  scene  of  reconciliation  ! 


259 


VII 

I  SLEPT  badly,  and  next  morning  got  up  early, 
fastened  a  knapsack  on  my  back,  and  telling 
my  landlady  not  to  expect  me  back  for  the 
night,  set  off  walking  to  the  mountains,  along 
the  upper  part  of  the  stream  on  which  Z.  is 
situated.  These  mountains,  offsets  of  the  ridge 
known  as  the  Hundsriick,  are  very  interesting 
from  a  geological  point  of  view.  They  are 
especially  remarkable  for  the  purity  and  regu- 
larity of  the  strata  of  basalt ;  but  I  was  in  no 
mood  for  geological  observations.  I  did  not 
take  stock  of  what  was  passing  within  me.  One 
feeling  was  clear  to  me ;  a  disinclination  to  see 
the  Gagins.  I  assured  myself  that  the  sole 
reason  of  my  sudden  distaste  for  their  society 
was  anger  at  their  duplicity. \Who  forced  them 
to  pass  themselves  off  as  brother  and  sister? 
However,  I  tried  not  to  think  about  them  ; 
I  sauntered  in  leisurely  fashion  about  the 
mountains  and  valleys,  sat  in  the  village  inns, 
talking  peacefully  to  the  innkeepers  and  people 
drinking  in  them,  or  lay  on  a  flat  stone  warmed 
by  the  sun,  and  watched  the  clouds  floating  by. 

260 


ACIA 

Luckily  it  was  exquisite  weather.  In  such 
pursuits  I  passed  three  d^ys,  and  j^t  without 
pleasure,  though  my  heaiPt  did  ache  at  times. 
My  own  mood  was  in  perfect  harmony  with 
the  peaceful  nature  of  that  quiet  countryside. 

I  gave  myself  up  entirely  to  the  play  of 
circumstances,  of  fleeting  impressions  ;  in  slow 
succession  they  flowed  through  my  soul,  and 
left  on  it  at  last  one  general  sensation,  in  which 
all  I  had  seen,  felt,  and  heard  in  those  three 
days  was  mingled — all ;  the  delicate  fragrance 
of  resin  in  the  forest,  the  call  and  tap  of  the 
woodpeckers,  the  never-ceasing  chatter  of  the 
clear  brooks,  with  spotted  trout  lying  in  the 
sand  at  the  bottom,  the  somewhat  softened 
outlines  of  the  mountains,  the  surly  rocks, 
the  little  clean  villages,  with  respectable  old 
churches  and  trees,  the  storks  in  the  meadows, 
the  neat  mills  with  swiftly  turning  wheels, 
the  beaming  faces  of  the  villagers,  their  blue 
smocks  and  grey  stockings,  the  creaking, 
deliberately-moving  wagons,  drawn  by  sleek 
horses,  and  sometimes  cows,  the  long-haired 
young  men,  wandering  on  the  clean  roads, 
planted  with  apple  and  pear  trees.  .  .  . 

Even  now  I  like  to  recall  my  impressions  of 
those  days.  Good  luck  go  with  thee,  modest 
nook  of  Germany,  with  thy  simple  plenty,  with 
traces  everywhere  of  busy  hands,  of  patient 
though  leisurely  toil.  .  .  .  Good  luck  and  peace 

to  thee ! 

261 


ACIA 

I  came  home  at  the  end  of  the  third  day; 
I  forgot  to  say  that  in  my  anger  with  the 
Gagins  I  tried  to  revive  the  image  of  my  cruel- 
hearted  widow,  but  my  efforts  were  fruitless. 
I  remember  when  I  applied  myself  to  musing 
upon  her,  I  saw  a  little  peasant  girl  of  five 
years  old,  with  a  round  little  face  and  inno- 
cently staring  eyes.  She  gazed  with  such 
childish  directness  at  me.  ...  I  felt  ashamed 
before  her  innocent  stare,  I  could  not  lie  in  her 
presence,  and  at  once,  and  once  for  all,  said  a 
last  good-bye  to  my  former  flame. 

At  home  I  found  a  note  from  Gagin.  He 
wondered  at  the  suddenness  of  my  plan, 
reproached  me,  asked  why  I  had  not  taken 
him  with  me,  and  pressed  me  to  go  and  see  him 
directly  I  was  back.  I  read  this  note  with 
dissatisfaction  ;  but  the  next  day  I  set  off  to 
the  Gagins. 


I 


262 


VIII 

Gagin  met  me  in  friendly  fashion,  and  over- 
whelmed me  with  affectionate  reproaches  ;  but 
Acia,  as  though  intentionally,  burst  out  laugh- 
ing for  no  reason  whatever,  directly  she  saw 
me,  and  promptly  ran  away,  as  she  so  often 
did.  Gagin  was  disconcerted  ;  he  muttered 
after  her  that  she  must  be  crazy,  and  begged 
me  to  excuse  her.  I  confess  I  was  very  much 
annoyed  with  Acia ;  already,  apart  from  that, 
I  was  not  at  my  ease ;  and  now  again  this 
unnatural  laughter,  these  strange  grimaces.  I 
pretended,  however,  not  to  notice  anything, 
and  began  telling  Gagin  some  of  the  incidents 
of  my  short  tour.  He  told  me  what  he  had 
been  doing  in  my  absence.  But  our  talk  did 
not  flow  easily;  Acia  came  into  the  room  and 
ran  out  again ;  I  declared  at  last  that  I  had 
urgent  work  to  do,  and  must  get  back  home. 
Gagin  at  first  tried  to  keep  me,  then,  looking 
intently  at  me,  offered  to  see  me  on  my  way. 
In  the  passage,  Acia  suddenly  came  up  to  me 
and  held  out  her  hand  ;  I  shook  her  fingers 
very  slightly,  and  barely  bowed  to  her.     Gagin 

263 


ACIA 

and  I  crossed  the  Rhine  together,  and  when 
we  reached  my  favourite  ash-tree  with  the 
statuette  of  the  Madonna,  we  sat  down  on  the 
bench  to  admire  the  view.  A  remarkable 
conversation  took  place  between  us. 

At  first  we  exchanged  a  few  words,  then  we 
were  silent,  watching  the  clear  river. 

*  Tell  me,'  began  Gagin  all  at  once,  with  his 
habitual  smile,  'what  do  you  think  of  Acia? 
I  suppose  she  must  strike  you  as  rather  strange, 
doesn't  she? ' 

*  Yes,'  I  answered,  in  some  perplexity.  I  had 
not  expected  he  would  begin  to  speak  of  her. 

'One  has  to  know  her  well  to  judge  of  her, 
he  observed  ;  *  she  has  a  very  good  heart,  but 
she's  wilful.  She's  difficult  to  get  on  with. 
But  you  couldn't  blame  her  if  you  knew  her 
story.  .  .  .' 

*  Her  story  ? '  I  broke  in.  ...  *  Why,  isn't 
she  your '     Gagin  glanced  at  me. 

*Do  you  really  think  she  isn't  my  sister?  .  .  . 
No,'  he  went  on,  paying  no  attention  to  my 
confusion,  *  she  really  is  my  sister,  she 's  my 
father's  daughter.  Let  me  tell  you  about  her, 
I  feel  I  can  trust  you,  and  I  '11  tell  you  all 
about  it. 

*  My  father  was  very  kind,  clever,  cultivated, 
and  unhappy.  Fate  treated  him  no  worse  than 
others  ;  but  he  could  not  get  over  her  first  blow. 
He  married  early,  for  love  ;  his  wife,  my  mother, 
died  very  soon  after ;   I  was  only  six  months 

264 


ACIA 

old  then.  My  father  took  me  away  with  him 
to  his  country  place,  and  for  twelve  years  he 
never  went  out  anywhere.  He  looked  after 
my  education  himself,  and  would  never  have 
parted  with  me,  if  his  brother,  my  uncle,  had 
not  come  to  see  us  in  the  country.  This  uncle 
always  lived  in  Petersburg,  where  he  held  a 
very  important  post.  He  persuaded  my  father 
to  put  me  in  his  charge,  as  my  father  would 
not  on  any  consideration  agree  to  leave  the 
country.  My  uncle  represented  to  him  that  it 
was  bad  for  a  boy  of  my  age  to  live  in  complete 
solitude,  that  with  such  a  constantly  depressed 
and  taciturn  instructor  as  my  father  I  should 
infallibly  be  much  behind  other  boys  of  my 
age  in  education,  and  that  my  character  even 
might  very  possibly  suffer.  My  father  resisted 
his  brother's  counsels  a  long  while,  but  he  gave 
way  at  last.  I  cried  at  parting  from  my  father ; 
I  loved  him,  though  I  had  never  seen  a  smile 
on  his  face  .  .  .  but  when  I  got  to  Petersburg, 
I  soon  forgot  our  dark  and  cheerless  home.  I 
entered  a  cadet's  school,  and  from  school  passed 
on  into  a  regiment  of  the  Guards.  Every 
year  I  used  to  go  home  to  the  country  for  a 
few  weeks,  and  every  year  I  found  my  father 
more  and  more  low-spirited,  absorbed  in  him- 
self, depressed,  and  even  timorous.  He  used 
to  go  to  church  every  day,  and  had  quite 
got  out  of  the  way  of  talking.  On  one  of  my 
visits — I  was  about  twenty  then — I  saw  for  the 

265 


ACIA 

first  time  in  our  house  a  thin,  dark-eyed  little 
girl  of  ten  years  old — Acia.  My  father  told 
me  she  was  an  orphan  whom  he  had  kept  out 
of  charity — that  was  his  very  expression.  I 
paid  no  particular  attention  to  her ;  she  was 
shy,  quick  in  her  movements,  and  silent  as  a 
little  wild  animal,  and  directly  I  went  into  my 
father's  favourite  room — an  immense  gloomy 
apartment,  where  my  mother  had  died,  and 
where  candles  were  kept  burning  even  in  the 
daytime — she  would  hide  at  once  behind  his 
big  arm-chair,  or  behind  the  book-case.  It  so 
happened  that  for  three  or  four  years  after  that 
visit  the  duties  of  the  service  prevented  my 
going  home  to  the  country.  I  used  to  get  a 
short  letter  from  my  father  every  month  ;  Acia 
he  rarely  mentioned,  and  only  incidentally. 
He  was  over  fifty,  but  he  seemed  still  young. 
Imagine  my  horror;  all  of  a  sudden,  suspecting 
nothing,  I  received  a  letter  from  the  steward, 
in  which  he  informed  me  my  father  was  danger- 
ously ill,  and  begged  me  to  come  as  soon  as 
possible  if  I  wanted  to  take  leave  of  him.  I 
galloped  off  post-haste,  and  found  my  father 
still  alive,  but  almost  at  his  last  gasp.  He 
was  greatly  relieved  to  see  me,  clasped  me  in 
his  wasted  arms,  and  gazed  at  me  with  a 
long,  half-scrutinising,  half-imploring  look,  and 
making  me  promise  I  would  carry  out  his 
last  request,  he  told  his  old  valet  to  bring 
Acia,     The  old  man  brought  her  in  ;  she  could 

266 


ACIA 

Scarcely  stand  upright,  and  was  shaking  all 
over. 

* "  Here,"  said  my  father  with  an  efifort,  "  I 
confide  to  you  my  daughter — your  sister.  You 
will  hear  all  about  her  from  Yakov,"  he  added, 
pointing  to  the  valet. 

*  Acia  sobbed,  and  fell  with  her  face  on  the 
bed.  .  .  .  Half-an-hour  later  my  father  died. 

'This  was  what  I  learned.  Acia  was  the 
daughter  of  my  father  by  a  former  maid-ser- 
vant of  my  mother's,  Tatiana.  I  have  a  vivid 
recollection  of  this  Tatiana,  I  remember  her 
tall,  slender  figure,  her  handsome,  stern,  clever 
face,  with  big  dark  eyes.  She  had  the  character 
of  being  a  proud,  unapproachable  girl.  As  far 
as  I  could  find  out  from  Yakov's  respectful, 
unfinished  sentences,  my  father  had  become 
attached  to  her  some  years  after  my  mother's 
death.  Tatiana  was  not  living  then  in  my  father's 
house,  but  in  the  hut  of  a  married  sister,  who 
had  charge  of  the  cows.  My  father  became 
exceedingly  fond  of  her,  and  after  my  departure 
from  the  country  he  even  wanted  to  marry 
her,  but  she  herself  would  not  consent  to  be 
his  wife,  in  spite  of  his  entreaties. 

'  "  The  deceased  Tatiana  Vassilievna,"  Yakov 
informed  me,  standing  in  the  doorway  with  his 
hands  behind  him,  "had  good  sense  in  every- 
thing, and  she  didn't  want  to  do  harm  to  your 
father.  '  A  poor  wife  I  should  be  for  you,  a  poor 
sort  of  lady  I  should  make,'  so  she  was  pleased 

267 


ACIA 

to  say,  she  said  so  before  me."  Tatiana  would 
not  even  move  into  the  house,  and  went  on  liv- 
ing at  her  sister's  with  Acia.  In  my  childhood 
I  used  to  see  Tatiana  only  on  saints'  days  in 
church.  With  her  head  tied  up  in  a  dark  ker- 
chief, and  a  yellow  shawl  on  her  shoulders,  she 
used  to  stand  in  the  crowd,  near  a  window — 
her  stern  profile  used  to  stand  out  sharply 
against  the  transparent  window-pane — and  she 
used  to  pray  sedately  and  gravely,  bowing  low 
to  the  ground  in  the  old-fashioned  way.  When 
my  uncle  carried  me  off,  Acia  was  only  two 
years  old,  and  she  lost  her  mother  when  she 
was  nine. 

'  Directly  Tatiana  died,  my  father  took  Acia 
into  his  house.  He  had  before  then  expressed 
a  wish  to  have  her  with  him,  but  that  too 
Tatiana  had  refused  him.  Imagine  what  must 
have  passed  in  Acia's  mind  when  she  was  taken 
into  the  master's  house.  To  this  day  she  cannot 
forget  the  moment  when  they  first  put  her  on  a 
silk  dress  and  kissed  her  hand.  Her  mother,  as 
long  as  she  lived,  had  brought  her  up  very 
strictly ;  with  my  father  she  enjoyed  absolute 
freedom.  He  was  her  tutor ;  she  saw  no  one 
except  him.  He  did  not  spoil  her,  that  is  to  say, 
he  didn't  fondle  and  pet  her  ;  but  he  loved  her 
passionately,  and  never  checked  her  in  anything; 
in  his  heart  he  considered  he  had  wronged  her. 
Acia  soon  realised  that  she  was  the  chief  per- 
sonage in  the  house ;  she  knew  the  master  was 

268 


ACIA 

her  father  ;  but  just  as  quickly  she  was  aware 
of  her  false  position  ;  self-consciousness  was 
strongly  developed  in  her,  mistrustfulness  too ; 
bad  habits  took  root,  simplicity  was  lost.  She 
wanted  (she  confessed  this  to  me  once  herself), 
to  force  the  whole  world  to  forget  her  origin  ; 
she  was  ashamed  of  her  mother,  and  at  the 
same  time  ashamed  of  being  ashamed,  and  was 
proud  of  her  too.  You  see  she  knew  and 
knows  a  lot  that  she  oughtn't  to  have  known 
at  her  age.  .  .  .  But  was  it  her  fault?  The 
forces  of  youth  were  at  work  in  her,  her  heart 
was  in  a  ferment,  and  not  a  guiding  hand  near 
her.  Absolute  independence  in  everything ! 
And  wasn't  it  hard  for  her  to  put  up  with  ? 
She  wanted  to  be  as  good  as  other  young 
ladies ;  she  flew  to  books.  But  what  good 
could  she  get  from  that  ?  Her  life  went  on  as 
irregularly  as  it  had  begun,  but  her  heart  was 
not  spoiled,  her  intellect  was  uninjured. 

*  And  there  was  I  left,  a  boy  of  twenty,  with 
a  girl  of  thirteen  on  my  hands !  For  the  first 
few  days  after  my  father's  death  the  very  sound 
of  my  voice  threw  her  into  a  fever,  my  caresses 
caused  her  anguish,  and  it  was  only  slowly  and 
gradually  that  she  got  used  to  me.  It  is  true 
that  later,  when  she  fully  realised  that  I  really 
did  acknowledge  her  as  my  sister,  and  cared  for 
her,  she  became  passionately  attached  to  me  ; 
she  can  feel  nothing  by  halves. 

'  I  took  her  to  Petersburg.     Painful  as  it  was 

269 


ACIA 

to  part  with  her,  we  could  not  live  together. 
I  sent  her  to  one  of  the  best  boarding-schools. 
Acia  knew  our  separation  was  inevitable,  yet 
she  began  by  fretting  herself  ill  over  it,  and 
almost  died.  Later  on  she  plucked  up  more 
spirit,  and  spent  four  years  at  school ;  but, 
contrary  to  my  expectations,  she  was  almost 
exactly  the  same  as  before.  The  headmistress 
of  the  school  often  made  complaints  of  her, 
*And  we  can't  punish  her,'  she  used  to  say 
to  me,  *and  she's  not  amenable  to  kindness.' 
Acia  was  exceedingly  quick-witted,  and  did 
better  at  her  lessons  than  any  one ;  but  she 
never  would  put  herself  on  a  level  with  the 
rest ;  she  was  perverse,  and  held  herself  aloof. 
...  I  could  not  blame  her  very  much  for  it ; 
in  her  position  she  had  either  to  be  subservient, 
or  to  hold  herself  aloof  Of  all  her  school- 
fellows she  only  made  friends  with  one,  an 
ugly  girl  of  poor  family,  who  was  sat  upon  by 
the  rest.  The  other  girls  with  whom  she  was 
brought  up,  mostly  of  good  family,  did  not  like 
her,  teased  her  and  taunted  her  as  far  as  they 
could.  Acia  would  not  give  way  to  them  an 
inch.  One  day  at  their  lesson  on  the  law  of  God, 
the  teacher  was  talking  of  the  vices.  *  Servility 
and  cowardice  are  the  worst  vices,'  Acia  said 
aloud.  She  would  still  go  her  own  way,  in 
fact ;  only  her  manners  were  improved,  though 
even  in  that  respect  I  think  she  did  not  gain  a 

great  deal. 

270 


ACIA 

*At  last  she  reached  her  seventeenth  year. 
I  could  not  keep  her  any  longer  at  school.  I 
found  myself  in  a  rather  serious  difficulty.  Sud- 
denly a  blessed  idea  came  to  me — to  resign  my 
commission  and  go  abroad  for  a  year  or  two, 
taking  Acia  with  me.  No  sooner  thought  than 
done ;  and  here  we  are  on  the  banks  of  the 
Rhine,  where  I  am  trying  to  take  up  painting, 
and  she  ...  is  as  naughty  and  troublesome 
as  ever.  But  now  I  hope  you  will  not  judge 
her  too  harshly ;  for  though  she  pretends  she 
doesn't  care,  she  values  the  good  opinion  of 
every  one,  and  yours  particularly.' 

And  Gagin  smiled  again  his  gentle  smile. 
I  pressed  his  hand  warmly. 

*  That 's  how  it  is,'  Gagin  began  again ;  *  but 
I  have  a  trying  time  with  her.  She's  like  gun- 
powder, always  ready  to  go  off.  So  far,  she  has 
never  taken  a  fancy  to  any  one,  but  woe  betide 
us,  if  she  falls  in  love  !  I  sometimes  don't  know 
what  to  do  with  her.  The  other  day  she  took 
some  notion  into  her  head,  and  suddenly  began 
declaring  I  was  colder  to  her  than  I  used  to 
be,  that  she  loved  me  and  no  one  else,  and  never 
would  love  any  one  else.  .  .  .  And  she  cried  so, 
as  she  said  it — ' 

'  So  that  was  it,' — I  was  beginning,  but  I  bit 
my  tongue. 

'Tell  me,'  I  questioned  Gagin,  *we  have 
talked  so  frankly  about  everything,  is  it  possible 
really,  she  has  never  cared  for  any  one  yet? 

271 


ACIA 

Didn't   she   see   any    young    men   in    Peters- 
burg?' 

*  She  didn't  like  them  at  all.  No,  Acia  wants 
a  hero — an  exceptional  individual — or  a  pic- 
turesque shepherd  on  a  mountain  pass.  But 
I've  been  chattering  away,  and  keeping  you,' 
he  added,  getting  up. 

*  Do  you  know ,'  I  began  ;  *  let 's  go  back 

to  your  place,  I  don't  want  to  go  home.' 

'  What  about  your  work  ? ' 

I  made  no  reply.  Gagin  smiled  good-humour- 
edly,  and  we  went  back  to  L.  As  I  caught  sight 
of  the  familiar  vineyard  and  little  white  house, 
I  felt  a  certain  sweetness — yes,  sweetness  in  my 
heart,  as  though  honey  was  stealthily  dropping 
thence  for  me.  My  heart  was  light  after  what 
Gagin  had  told  me. 


272 


IX 


ACIA  met  us  in  the  very  doorway  of  the  house. 
I  expected  a  laugh  again  ;  but  she  came  to 
meet  us,  pale  and  silent,  with  downcast  eyes. 

'Here  he  is  again,'  Gagin  began,  'and  he 
wanted  to  come  back  of  his  own  accord, 
observe.' 

Acia  looked  at  me  inquiringly.  It  was  my 
turn  now  to  hold  out  my  hand,  and  this  time 
I  pressed  her  chilly  fingers  warmly.  I  felt  very 
sorry  for  her.  I  understood  now  a  great  deal 
in  her  that  had  puzzled  me  before  ;  her  inward 
restlessness,  her  want  of  breeding,  her  desire  to 
be  striking — all  became  clear  to  me.  I  had 
had  a  peep  into  that  soul ;  a  secret  scourge 
was  always  tormenting  her,  her  ignorant  self- 
consciousness  struggled  in  confused  alarm,  but 
her  whole  nature  strove  towards  truth.  I  under- 
stood why  this  strange  little  girl  attracted  me ; 
it  was  not  only  by  the  half-wild  charm  of  her 
slender  body  that  she  attracted  me ;  I  liked 
her  soul. 

Gagin  began  rummaging  among  his  canvases. 
I  suggested  to  Acia  that  she  should  take  a 

273  S 


ACIA 

turn  with  me  in  the  vineyard.  She  agreed  at 
once,  with  cheerful  and  almost  humble  readi- 
ness. We  went  half-way  down  the  mountain, 
and  sat  down  on  a  broad  stone. 

'And  you  weren't  dull  without  us?'  Acia 
began. 

'  And  were  you  dull  without  me?'  I  queried. 

Acia  gave  me  a  sidelong  look. 

*Yes,'  she  answered.  'Was  it  nice  in  the 
mountains  ? '  she  went  on  at  once.  '  Were  they 
high  ones  ?  Higher  than  the  clouds  ?  Tell  me 
what  you  saw.  You  were  telling  my  brother, 
but  I  didn't  hear  anything.' 

*  It  was  of  your  own  accord  you  went  away,' 
I  remarked. 

*  I  went  away  .  .  .  because  .  .  . — I  'm  not 
going  away  now,'  she  added  with  a  confid- 
ing caress  in  her  voice.  *You  were  angry 
to-day.' 

'I?' 

*  Yes,  you.' 

'  Upon  my  word,  whatever  for?* 

*  I  don't  know,  but  you  were  angry,  and  you 
went  away  angry.  I  was  very  much  vexed 
that  you  went  away  like  that,  and  I  'm  so  glad 
you  came  back.' 

*  And  I  'm  glad  I  came  back,'  I  observed. 
Acia  gave  herself  a  little  shrug,  as  children 

often  do  when  they  are  very  pleased. 

*  Oh,  I  'm  good  at  guessing ! '  she  went  on. 
'  Sometimes,  simply  from  the  way  papa  coughed, 

274 


ACIA 

I  could  tell  in  the  next  room  whether  he  was 
pleased  with /me  or  not' 

Till  that  day  Ada  had  never  once  spoken 
to  me  of  her  father.     I  was  struck  by  it. 

*  Were  you  fond  of  your  father  ? '  I  said,  and 
suddenly,  to  my  intense  annoyance,  I  felt  I  was 
reddening. 

She  made  no  answer,  and  blushed  too.  We 
were  both  silent.  In  the  distance  a  smoking 
steamer  was  scudding  along  on  the  Rhine.  We 
began  watching  it 

'Why  don't  you  tell  me  about  your  tour?* 
Acia  murmured. 

'  Why  did  you  laugh  to-day  directly  you  saw 
me?'  I  asked. 

*  I  don't  know  really.  Sometimes  1  want  to 
cry,  but  I  laugh.  You  mustn't  judge  me — 
by  what  I  do.  Oh,  by-the-bye,  what  a  story 
that  is  about  the  Lorelei !  Is  that  her  rock  we 
can  see?  They  say  she  used  to  drown  every 
one,  but  as  soon  as  she  fell  in  love  she  threw 
herself  in  the  water.  I  like  that  story.  Frau 
Luise  tells  me  all  sorts  of  stories.  Frau  Luise 
has  a  black  cat  with  yellow  eyes.  .  .  .' 

Acia  raised  her  head  and  shook  her 
curls. 

*  Ah,  I  am  happy,'  she  said. 

At  that  instant  there  floated  across  to  us 
broken,  monotonous  sounds.  Hundreds  of  voices 
in  unison  and  at  regular  intervals  were  repeat- 
ing a  chanted  litany.     The  crowd  of  pilgrims 

275 


ACIA 

Tioved  slowly  along  the  road  below  with  crosses 
and  banners.  .  .  . 

*  I  should  like  to  go  with  them/  said  Acia, 
listening  to  the  sounds  of  the  voices  gradually- 
growing  fainter. 

*  Are  you  so  religious  ?  * 

*  I  should  like  to  go  far  away  on  a  pilgrimage, 
on  some  great  exploit/  she  went  on.  *  As  it 
is,  the  days  pass  by,  life  passes  by,  and  what 
have  we  done  ? ' 

*  You  are  ambitious/  I  observed.  '  You  want 
to  live  to  some  purpose,  to  leave  some  trace 
behind  you.  .  .  / 

*  Is  that  impossible,  then  ? ' 

*  Impossible/  I  was  on  the  point  of  repeat- 
ing. .  .  .  But  I  glanced  at  her  bright  eyes,  and 
only  said : 

*  You  can  try.' 

*  Tell  me/  began  Acia,  after  a  brief  silence 
during  which  shadows  passed  over  her  face, 
which  had  already  turned  pale,  *  did  you  care 
much  for  that  lady?  .  .  .  You  remember  my 
brother  drank  her  health  at  the  ruins  the  day 
after  we  first  knew  you.' 

I  laughed. 

*  Your  brother  was  joking.  I  never  cared  for 
any  lady  ;  at  any  rate,  I  don't  care  for  one  now.' 

'And  what  do  you  like  in  women?'  she 
asked,  throwing  back  her  head  with  innocent 
curiosity. 

'  What  a  strange  question  ! '  I  cried. 

276 


ACIA 

Ada  was  a  little  disconcerted. 

*  I  ought  not  to  ask  you  such  a  question, 
ought  I  ?  Forgive  me,  I  'm  used  to  chattering 
away  about  anything  that  comes  into  my  head. 
That 's  why  I  'm  afraid  to  speak/ 

*  Speak,  for  God's  sake,  don't  be  afraid,'  I 
hastened  to  intervene ;  *  I  'm  so  glad  you  're 
leaving  off  being  shy  at  last.' 

Acia  looked  down,  and  laughed  a  soft  light- 
hearted  laugh  ;  I  had  never  heard  such  a  laugh 
from  her. 

'  Well,  tell  me  about  something,'  she  went 
on,  stroking  out  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  and 
arranging  the  folds  over  her  legs,  as  though 
she  were  settling  herself  for  a  long  while  ;  *  tell 
me  or  read  me  something,  just  as  you  read  us, 
do  you  remember,  from  Oniegin  .  .  .' 

She  suddenly  grew  pensive — 

*  Where  now  is  the  cross  and  the  branches'  shade 
Over  my  poor  mother's  grave  ! ' 

She  murmured  in  a  low  voice. 

'  That 's  not  as  it  is  in  Pushkin,'  I  observed. 

'  But  I  should  like  to  have  been  Tatiana,'  she 
went  on,  in  the  same  dreamy  tone.  *  Tell  me 
a  story,'  she  suddenly  added  eagerly. 

But  I  was  not  in  a  mood  for  telling  stories. 
I  was  watching  her,  all  bathed  in  the  bright 
sunshine,  all  peace  and  gentleness.  Every- 
thing was  joyously  radiant  about  us,  below, 
and   above   us — sky,   earth,   and   waters ;    the 

277 


I 


All  that  day  passed  most  delightfully.  We 
were  as  merry  as  children.  Acia  was  very 
sweet  and  simple.  Gagin  was  delighted,  as  he 
watched  her.  I  went  home  late.  When  I  had 
got  out  into  the  middle  of  the  Rhine,  I  asked 
the  ferryman  to  let  the  boat  float  down  with 
the  current.  The  old  man  pulled  up  his  oars, 
and  the  majestic  river  bore  us  along.  As  I 
looked  about  me,  listened,  brooded  over  re- 
collections, I  was  suddenly  aware  of  a  secret 
restlessness  astir  in  my  heart  ...  I  lifted  my 
eyes  skywards,  but  there  was  no  peace  even 
in  the  sky ;  studded  with  stars,  it  seemed  all 
moving,  quivering,  twinkling ;  I  bent  over  to 
the  river — but  even  there,  even  in  those  cold 
dark  depths,  the  stars  were  trembling  and 
glimmering ;  I  seemed  to  feel  an  exciting 
quickening  of  life  on  all  sides — and  a  sense  of 
alarm  rose  up  within  me  too.  I  leaned  my 
elbows  on  the  boat's  edge  .  .  .  The  whispering 
of  the  wind  in  my  ears,  the  soft  gurgling  of  the 
water  at  the  rudder  worked  on  my  nerves,  and 

the  fresh  breath  of  the  river  did  not  cool  me ; 

280 


ACIA 

a  nightingale  was  singing  on  the  bank,  and 
stung  me  with  the  sweet  poison  of  its  notes. 
Tears  rose  into  my  eyes,  but  they  were  not 
the  tears  of  aimless  rapture.  .  .  .  What  I  was 
feeling  was  not  the  vague  sense  I  had  known 
of  late  of  all-embracing  desire  when  the  soul 
expands,  resounds,  when  it  feels  that  it  grasps 
all,  loves  all.  ...  No!  it  was  the  thirst  for 
happiness  aflame  in  me.  I  did  not  dare  yet 
to  call  it  by  its  name — but  happiness,  happi- 
ness full  and  overflowing — that  was  what  I 
wanted,  that  was  what  I  pined  for.  .  .  .  The 
boat  floated  on,  and  the  old  ferryman  sat 
dozing  as  he  leant  on  his  oars. 


281 


XI 


As  I  set  off  next  day  to  the  Gagins,  I  did  not 
ask  myself  whether  I  was  in  love  with  Acia, 
but  I  thought  a  great  deal  about  her,  her  fate 
absorbed  me,  I  rejoiced  at  our  unexpected 
intimacy.  I  felt  that  it  was  only  yesterday  I 
had  got  to  know  her ;  till  then  she  had  turned 
away  from  me.  And  now,  when  she  had  at 
last  revealed  herself  to  me,  in  what  a  seductive 
light  her  image  showed  itself,  how  fresh  it  was 
for  me,  what  secret  fascinations  were  modestly 
peeping  out.  .  .  . 

I  walked  boldly  up  the  familiar  road,  gazing 
continually  at  the  cottage,  a  white  spot  in  the 
distance.  I  thought  not  of  the  future — not 
even  of  the  morrow — I  was  very  happy. 

Acia  flushed  directly  I  came  into  the  room ; 
I  noticed  that  she  had  dressed  herself  in  her 
best  again,  but  the  expression  of  her  face  was 
not  in  keeping  with  her  finery  ;  it  was  mourn- 
ful. And  I  had  come  in  such  high  spirits !  I 
even  fancied  that  she  was  on  the  point  of 
running  away  as  usual,  but  she  controlled  her- 
self and  remained.     Gagin  was  in  that  peculiar 

282 


ACTA 

condition  of  artistic  heat  and  intensity  which 
seizes  amateurs  all  of  a  sudden,  like  a  fit,  when 
they  imagine  they  are  succeeding  in  '  catching 
nature  and  pinning  her  down.'  He  was  stand- 
ing with  dishevelled  locks,  and  besmeared  with 
paint,  before  a  stretched  canvas,  and  flourish- 
ing the  brush  over  it ;  he  almost  savagely 
nodded  to  me,  turned  away,  screwed  up  his 
eyes,  and  bent  again  over  his  picture.  I  did 
not  hinder  him,  but  went  and  sat  down  by 
Acia.  Slowly  her  dark  eyes  turned  to 
me. 

*  You  're  not  the  same  to-day  as  yesterday,' 
I  observed,  after  ineffectual  efforts  to  call  up 
a  smile  on  her  lips. 

*  No,    I  'm    not,'   she    answered,   in    a    slow 
I  and  dull  voice.     *But  that  means  nothing.     I 

did  not  sleep  well,  I  was  thinking  all 
night.' 

'  What  about  ? ' 

*  Oh,  I  thought  about  so  many  things.  It 's 
a  way  I  have  had  from  childhood  ;  ever  since  I 
used  to  live  with  mother — ' 

She  uttered  the  word  with  an  effort,  and 
then  repeated  again — 

*When  I  used  to  live  with  mother  ...  I 
used  to  think  why  it  was  no  one  could  tell 
what  would  happen  to  him  ;  and  sometimes 
one  sees  trouble  coming — and  one  can't  escape; 
and  how  it  is  one  can  never  tell  all  the  truth 
.  .  .  Then  I  used  to  think  I  knew  nothing,  and 

283 


ACIA 

that  I  ought  to  learn.  I  want  to  be  educated 
over  again  ;  I  'm  very  badly  educated.  I  can't 
play  the  piano,  I  can't  draw,  and  even  sewing 
I  do  very  badly.  I  have  no  talent  for  any- 
thing ;  I  must  be  a  very  dull  person  to  be 
with.' 

*  You  're  unjust  to  yourself,'  I  replied ; 
*  you  've  read  a  lot,  you  're  cultivated,  and 
with  your  cleverness — ' 

'Why,  am  I  clever?'  she  asked  with  such 
naive  interest,  that  I  could  not  help  laughing ; 
but  she  did  not  even  smile.  *  Brother,  am  I 
clever  ? '  she  asked  Gagin. 

He  made  her  no  answer,  but  went  on  work- 
ing, continually  changing  brushes  and  raising 
his  arm. 

*  I  don't  know  myself  what  is  in  my  head,' 
Acia  continued,  with  the  same  dreamy  air.  *  I 
am  sometimes  afraid  of  myself,  really.  Ah,  I 
should  like  ...  Is  it  true  that  women  ought 
not  to  read  a  great  deal  ? ' 

*  A  great  deal 's  not  wanted,  but  .  .  .' 

*Tell  me  what  I  ought  to  read?  Tell  me 
what  I  ought  to  do.  I  will  do  everything  you 
tell  me,'  she  added,  turning  to  me  with 
innocent  confidence. 

I  could  not  at  once  find  a  reply. 

*  You  won't  be  dull  with  me,  though  ?  * 

'  What  nonsense,'  I  was  beginning.  .  .  . 

*  All  right,  thanks ! '  Acia  put  in ;  *  1  was 
thinking  you  would  be  bored.' 

284 


ACIA 

And  her  little  hot  hand  clasped  mine 
warmly. 

'  N  ! '  Gagin  cried  at  that  instant ;  '  isn't  that 
background  too  dark  ? ' 

I  went  up  to  him.  Acia  got  up  and  went 
away. 


285 


XII 


She  came  back  in  an  hour,  stood  in  the  door- 
way and  beckoned  to  me. 

*  Listen,'  she  said  ;  *  if  I  were  to  die,  would 
you  be  sorry  ? ' 

'  What  ideas  you  have  to-day ! '  I  exclaimed. 

'  I  fancy  I  shall  die  soon ;  it  seems  to  me 
sometimes  as  though  everything  about  me  were 
saying  good-bye.  It's  better  to  die  than  live 
like  this.  .  .  .  Ah !  don't  look  at  me  like  that ; 
I  'm  not  pretending,  really.  Or  else  I  shall 
begin  to  be  afraid  of  you  again.' 

'  Why,  were  you  afraid  of  me? ' 

*  If  I  am  queer,  it 's  really  not  my  fault,'  she 
rejoined.   *  You  see,  I  can't  even  laugh  now.  . .  .' 

She  remained  gloomy  and  preoccupied  till 
evening.  Something  was  taking  place  in  her ; 
what,  I  did  not  understand.  Her  eyes  often 
rested  upon  me ;  my  heart  slowly  throbbed 
under  her  enigmatic  gaze.  She  appeared  com- 
posed, and  yet  as  I  watched  her  I  kept  wanting 
to  tell  her  not  to  let  herself  get  excited.  I 
admired  her,  found  a  touching  charm  in  her 
pale  face,  her  hesitating,  slow  movements,  but 

286 


AClA 

she  for  some  reason  fancied  I  was  out  of 
bumour. 

'  Let  me  tell  you  something,'  she  said  to  me 
not  long  before  parting ;  *  I  am  tortured  by  the 
idea  that  you  consider  me  frivolous.  .  .  .  For 
the  future  believe  what  I  say  to  you,  only  do 
you,  too,  be  open  with  me ;  and  I  will  always 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  give  you  my  word  of 
honour.  .  .  .' 

This  '  word  of  honour '  set  me  laughing  again. 

*  Oh,  don't  laugh,'  she  said  earnestly,  *  or  I 
shall  say  to  you  to-day  what  you  said  to  me 
yesterday,  "why  are  you  laughing?'"  and  after 
a  brief  silence  she  added,  *  Do  you  remember 
you  spoke  yesterday  of  "  wings "  ?  .  .  .  My 
wings  have  grown,  but  I  have  nowhere  to 
fly.' 

*  Nonsense,'  I  said  ;  *  all  the  ways  lie  open 
before  you.  .  .  / 

Acia  looked  at  me  steadily,  straight  in  the 
face. 

'  You  have  a  bad  opinion  of  me  to-day,'  she 
said,  frowning. 

*  I  ?  a  bad  opinion  of  you  !  .  .  .' 

'Why  is  it  you  are  both  so  low-spirited,' 
Gagin  interrupted  me — *  would  you  like  me  to 
play  a  waltz,  as  I  did  yesterday  ? ' 

'  No,  no,'  replied  Acia,  and  she  clenched  her 
hands  ;  *  not  to-day,  not  for  anything  ! ' 

'  I  'm  not  going  to  force  you  to  ;  don't  excite 

yourself 

287 


ACIA 

'  Not  for  anything !  *  she  repeated,  turning 
pale. 

•  ••*•* 

*  Can  it  be  she 's  in  love  with  me  ?  *  I  thought, 
as  I  drew  near  the  dark  rushing  waters  of  the 
Rhine. 


288 


XIII 

*  Can  it  be  that  she  loves  me  ? '  I  asked  myself 
next  morning,  directly  I  awoke.  I  did  not 
want  to  look  into  myself.  I  felt  that  her 
image,  the  image  of  the  'girl  with  the  affected 
laugh,'  had  crept  close  into  my  heart,  and  that 
I  should  not  easily  get   rid  of  it.     I  went  to 

L and  stayed  there  the  whole  day,  but  I 

saw  Acia  only  by  glimpses.  She  was  not  well ; 
she  had  a  headache.  She  came  downstairs  for 
a  minute,  with  a  bandage  round  her  forehead, 
looking  white  and  thin,  her  eyes  half-closed. 
With  a  faint  smile  she  said,  *  It  will  soon  be 
over,  it  's  nothing ;  everything  's  soon  over, 
isn't  it?'  and  went  away.  I  felt  bored  and,  as 
it  were,  listlessly  sad,  yet  I  could  not  make  up 
my  mind  to  go  for  a  long  while,  and  went 
home  late,  without  seeing  her  again. 

The  next  morning  passed  in  a  sort  of  half 
slumber  of  the  consciousness.  I  tried  to  set  to 
work,  and  could  not ;  I  tried  to  do  nothing 
and  not  to  think — and  that  was  a  failure  too. 
I  strolled  about  the  town,  returned  home, 
went  out  again. 

289  T 


ACIA 

'  Are  you  Herr  N ?  *  I  heard  a  childish 

voice  ask  suddenly  behind  me.  I  looked 
round  ;  a  little  boy  was  standing  before  me. 
'This  is  for  you  from  Fraiilein  Annette/  he 
said,  handing  me  a  note. 

I  opened  it  and  recognised  the  irregular 
rapid  handwriting  of  Acia.  *  I  must  see  you 
to-day/  she  wrote  to  me  ;  *  come  to-day  at  four 
o'clock  to  the  stone  chapel  on  the  road  near 
the  ruin.  I  have  done  a  most  foolish  thing 
to-day.  .  .  .  Come,  for  God's  sake ;  you  shall 
know  all  about  it.  .  .  .  Tell  the  messenger, 
yes.' 

*  Is  there  an  answer  ? '  the  boy  asked  me. 

*  Say,  yes/  I  replied.     The  boy  ran  off. 


«9o 


XIV 

I  WENT  home  to  my  own  room,  sat  down,  and 
sank  into  thought.  My  heart  was  beating 
violently.  I  read  Acia's  note  through  several 
times.  I  looked  at  my  watch ;  it  was  not  yet 
twelve  o'clock. 

The  door  opened,  Gagin  walked  in. 

His  face  was  overcast.  He  seized  my  hand 
and  pressed  it  warmly.  He  seemed  very  much 
agitated. 

'What  is  the  matter?'  I  asked. 

Gagin  took  a  chair  and  sat  down  opposite 
me.  *  Three  days  ago,'  he  began  with  a  rather 
forced  smile,  and  hesitating,  *  I  surprised  you 
by  what  I  told  you  ;  to-day  I  am  going  to 
surprise  you  more.  With  any  other  man  I 
could  not,  most  likely,  bring  myself  .  ,  .  so 
directly.  .  .  .  But  you  're  an  honourable  man, 
you  're  my  friend,  aren't  you  ?  Listen — my 
sister,  Acia,  is  in  love  with  you.' 

I  trembled  all  over  and  stood  up.  .  ,  , 

*  Your  sister,  you  say * 

*Yes,  yes,*  Gagin  cut  me  short.  *I  tell  you, 
she's   mad,  and   she'll   drive   me   mad.     But 

291 


ACIA 

happily  she  can't  tell  a  lie,  and  she  confides  in 
me.  Ah,  what  a  soul  there  is  in  that  little 
girl !  .  .  .  but  she  '11  be  her  own  ruin,  that 's 
certain/ 

*  But  you  're  making  a  mistake/  I  began. 

*  No,  I  'm  not  making  a  mistake.  Yesterday, 
you  know,  she  was  lying  down  almost  all  day, 
she  ate  nothing,  but  she  did  not  complain.  .  .  . 
She  never  does  complain.  I  was  not  anxious, 
though  towards  evening  she  was  in  a  slight 
fever.  At  two  o'clock  last  night  I  was  wakened 
by  our  landlady  ;  "Go  to  your  sister,"  she  said  ; 
"there's  something  wrong  with  her."  I  ran  in 
to  Acia,  and  found  her  not  undressed,  feverish, 
and  in  tears  ;  her  head  was  aching,  her  teeth 
were  chattering.  "What's  the  matter  with 
you?"  I  said,  "  are  you  ill  ?  "  She  threw  herself 
on  my  neck  and  began  imploring  me  to  take 
her  away  as  soon  as  possible,  if  I  want  to  keep 
her  alive.  ...  I  could  make  out  nothing,  I 
tried  to  soothe  her.  ...  Her  sobs  grew  more 
violent,  .  .  .  and  suddenly  through  her  sobs  I 
made  out  .  .  .  well,  in  fact,  I  made  out  that 
she  loves  you.  I  assure  you,  you  and  I  are 
reasonable  people,  and  we  can't  imagine  how 
deeply  she  feels  and  with  what  incredible  force 
her  feelings  show  themselves ;  it  has  come 
upon  her  as  unexpectedly  and  irresistibly  as  a 
thunderstorm.  You  're  a  very  nice  person,' 
Gagin  pursued,  *but  why  she's  so  in  love  with 
you,  I  confess  I  don't  understand.     She  says 

292 


ACIA 

she  has  been  drawn  to  you  from  the  first 
moment  she  saw  you.  That's  why  she  cried 
the  other  day  when  she  declared  she  would 
never  love  anyone  but  me. — She  imagines  you 
despise  her,  that  you  most  likely  know  about 
her  birth ;  she  asked  me  if  I  hadn't  told  you 
her  story, — I  said,  of  course,  that  I  hadn't ;  but 
her  intuition 's  simply  terrible.  She  has  one 
wish, — to  get  away,  to  get  away  at  once.  I 
sat  with  her  till  morning  ;  she  made  me  promise 
we  should  not  be  here  to-morrow,  and  only 
then,  she  fell  asleep.  I  have  been  thinking  and 
thinking,  and  at  last  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
speak  to  you.  To  my  mind,  Acia  is  right ; 
the  best  thing  is  for  us  both  to  go  away  from 
here.  And  I  should  have  taken  her  away 
to-day,  if  I  had  not  been  struck  by  an  idea 
which  made  me  pause.  Perhaps  .  .  .  who 
knows?  do  you  like  my  sister?  If  so,  what's 
the  object  of  my  taking  her  away?  And  so  I 
decided  to  cast  aside  all  reserve.  .  .  .  Besides, 
I  noticed  something  myself  ...  I  made  up  my 
mind  ...  to  find  out  from  you  .  .  .'  Poor 
Gagin  was  completely  out  of  countenance. 
*  Excuse  me,  please,'  he  added,  *  I  'm  not  used 
to  such  bothers.' 

I  took  his  hand. 

'  You  want  to  know,'  I  pronounced  in  a  steady 
voice,  *  whether  I  like  your  sister?  Yes,  I  do 
like  her — ' 

Gagin    glanced    at    me.      *But,'    he    said, 

293 


ACTA 

faltering,    *you  *d    hardly    marry    her,   would 
you?' 

*  How  would  you  have  me  answer  such  a  ques- 
tion ?     Only  think  ;  can  I  at  the  moment * 

*  I  know,  I  know,*  Gagin  cut  me  short ;  *  I 
have  no  right  to  expect  an  answer  from  you, 
and  my  question  was  the  very  acme  of  impro- 
priety. .  .  .  But  what  am  I  to  do?  One  can't 
play  with  fire.  You  don't  know  Acia ;  she's 
quite  capable  of  falling  ill,  running  away,  or 
asking  you  to  see  her  alone.  .  .  .  Any  other 
girl  might  manage  to  hide  it  all  and  wait — but 
not  she.  It  is  the  first  time  with  her,  that's 
the  worst  of  it !  If  you  had  seen  how  she 
sobbed  at  my  feet  to-day,  you  would  understand 
my  fears.' 

I  was  pondering.  Gagin's  words  'asking 
you  to  see  her  alone,'  had  sent  a  twinge  to  my 
heart.  I  felt  it  was  shameful  not  to  meet  his 
honest  frankness  with  frankness. 

'  Yes,'  I  said  at  last ;  '  you  are  right.  An 
hour  ago  I  got  a  note  from  your  sister.     Here 

It  IS. 

Gagin  took  the  note,  quickly  looked  it 
through,  and  let  his  hands  fall  on  his  knees. 
The  expression  of  perplexity  on  his  face  was 
very  amusing,  but  I  was  in  no  mood  for 
laughter. 

*  I  tell  you  again,  you  're  an  honourable  man,* 
he  said  ;  '  but  what 's  to  be  done  now  ?  What  ? 
she  herself  wants  to  go  away,  and  she  writes 

294 


ACIA 

to  you  and  blames  herself  for  acting  unwisely 
.  .  .  and  when  had  she  time  to  write  this  ? 
What  does  she  wish  of  you  ? ' 

I  pacified  him,  and  we  began  to  discuss  as 
coolly  as  we  could  what  we  ought  to  do. 

The  conclusion  we  reached  at  last  was  that, 
to  avoid  worse  harm  befalling,  I  was  to  go  and 
meet  Acia,  and  to  have  a  straight-forward 
explanation  with  her ;  Gagin  pledged  himself 
to  stay  at  home,  and  not  to  give  a  sign  of 
knowing  about  her  note  to  me  ;  in  the  evening 
we  arranged  to  see  each  other  again. 

'  I  have  the  greatest  confidence  in  you,'  said 
Gagin,  and  he.  pressed  my  hand  ;  '  have  mercy 
on  her  and  on  me.  But  we  shall  go  away 
to-morrow,  anyway,'  he  added  getting  up,  '  for 
you  won't  marry  Acia,  I  see.' 

'Give  me  time  till  the  evening,'  I  objected. 

*  All  right,  but  you  won't  marry  her.' 

He  went  away,  and  I  threw  myself  on  the 
sofa,  and  shut  my  eyes.  My  head  was  going 
round  ;  too  many  impressions  had  come  burst- 
ing on  it  at  once.  I  was  vexed  at  Gagin's 
frankness,  I  was  vexed  with  Acia,  her  love 
delighted  and  disconcerted  me,  I  could  not 
comprehend  what  had  made  her  reveal  it  to  her 
brother ;  the  absolute  necessity  of  rapid,  almost 
instantaneous  decision  exasperated  me.  'Marry 
a  little  girl  of  seventeen,  with  her  character, 
how  is  it  possible  ? '  I  said,  getting  up. 


29s 


XV 


At  the  appointed  hour  I  crossed  the  Rhine, 
and  the  first  person  I  met  on  the  opposite  bank 
was  the  very  boy  who  had  come  to  me  in  the 
morning.     He  was  obviously  waiting  for  me. 

*  From  Fraiilein  Annette/  he  said  in  a  whis- 
per, and  he  handed  me  another  note. 

Acia  informed  me  she  had  changed  the  place 
of  our  meeting.  I  was  to  go  in  an  hour  and  a 
half,  not  to  the  chapel,  but  to  Frau  Luise's 
house,  to  knock  below,  and  go  up  to  the  third 
storey. 

'  Is  it,  yes,  again  ? '  asked  the  boy. 

'Yes,'  I  repeated,  and  I  walked  along  the 
bank  of  the  Rhine.  There  was  not  time  to  go 
home,  I  didn't  want  to  wander  about  the  streets. 
Beyond  the  town  wall  there  was  a  little  garden, 
with  a  skittle  ground  and  tables  for  beer 
drinkers.  I  went  in  there.  A  few  middle- 
aged  Germans  were  playing  skittles  ;  the 
wooden  balls  rolled  along  with  a  sound  of 
knocking,  now  and  then  cries  of  approval 
reached  me.  A  pretty  waitress,  with  her  eyes 
swollen  with  weeping,  brought  me  a  tankard  of 

296 


ACIA 

beer;  I  glanced  at  her  face.    She  turned  quickly 
and  walked  away. 

*  Yes,  yes,'  observed  a  fat,  red-cheeked  citizen 
sitting  by, 'our  Hannchen  is  dreadfully  upset 
to-day ;  her  sweetheart's  gone  for  a  soldier.' 
I  looked  at  her;  she  was  sitting  huddled  up  in 
a  corner,  her  face  propped  on  her  hand  ;  tears 
were  rolling  one  by  one  between  her  fingers. 
Some  one  called  for  beer ;  she  took  him  a  pot, 
and  went  back  to  her  place.  Her  grief  affected 
me  ;  I  began  musing  on  the  interview  awaiting 
me,  but  my  dreams  were  anxious,  cheerless 
dreams.  It  was  with  no  light  heart  I  was  going 
to  this  interview ;  I  had  no  prospect  before  me 
of  giving  myself  up  to  the  bliss  of  love  returned  ; 
what  lay  before  me  was  to  keep  my  word,  to 
do  a  difficult  duty.  *  One  can't  play  with  her.' 
These  words  of  Gagin's  had  gone  through  my 
heart  like  arrows.  And  three  days  ago,  in  that 
boat  borne  along  by  the  current,  had  I  not 
been  pining  with  the  thirst  for  happiness  ?  It 
had  become  possible,  and  I  was  hesitating,  I 
was  pushing  it  away,  I  was  bound  to  push 
it  from  me — its  suddenness  bewildered  me. 
Acia  herself,  with  her  fiery  temperament,  her 
past,  her  bringing-up,  this  fascinating,  strange 
creature,  I  confess  she  frightened  me.  My 
feelings  were  long  struggling  within  me.  The 
appointed  hour  was  drawing  near.  '  I  can't 
marry  her,'  I   decided  at  last;  'she  shall  not 

know  I  love  her.' 

297 


ACIA 

I  got  up,  and  putting  a  thaler  in  the  hand  of 
poor  Hannchen  (she  did  not  even  thank  me),  I 
directed  my  steps  towards  Frau  Luise's.  The 
air  was  already  overcast  with  the  shadows  of 
evening,  and  the  narrow  strip  of  sky,  above  the 
dark  street,  was  red  with  the  glow  of  sunset.  I 
knocked  faintly  at  the  door ;  it  was  opened  at 
once.  I  stepped  through  the  doorway,  and 
found  myself  in  complete  darkness. 

'  This  way.'  I  heard  an  old  woman's  voice. 
'  You  're  expected.' 

I  took  two  steps,  groping  my  way,  a  long 
hand  took  mine. 

*  Is  that  you,  Frau  Luise  ? '  I  asked. 

*  Yes,'  answered  the  same  voice,  '  'Tis  I,  my 
fine  young  man.'     The  old  woman  led  me  up  a    | 
steep  staircase,  and  stopped  on  the  third  floor. 
In  the  feeble  light  from  a  tiny  window,  I  saw 
the  wrinkled  visage  of  the  burgomaster's  widow. 

A  crafty  smile  of  mawkish  sweetness  contorted 
her  sunken  lips,  and  pursed  up  her  dim-sighted 
eyes.     She  pointed  me  to  a  little  door ;  with  an  — 
abrupt  movement  I  opened  it  and  slammed  it  * 
behind  me. 


298 


XVI 

In  the  little  room  into  which  I  stepped,  it  was 
rather  dark,  and  I  did  not  at  once  see  Acia. 
Wrapped  in  a  big  shawl,  she  was  sitting  on  a 
chair  by  the  window,  turning  away  from  me 
and  almost  hiding  her  head  like  a  frightened 
bird.  She  was  breathing  quickly,  and  trembling 
all  over.  I  felt  unutterably  sorry  for  her.  I 
went  up  to  her.  She  averted  her  head  still 
more.  .  .  , 

*  Anna  Nikolaevna,'  I  said. 

She  suddenly  drew  herself  up,  tried  to  look 
at  me,  and  could  not.  I  took  her  hand,  it  was 
cold,  and  lay  like  a  dead  thing  in  mine. 

*  I  wished ' — Acia  began,  trying  to  smile, 
but  unable  to  control  her  pale  lips  ;  '  I  wanted 
— No,  I  can't,'  she  said,  and  ceased.  Her 
voice  broke  at  every  word. 

I  sat  down  beside  her. 

'Anna  Nikolaevna,'  I  repeated,  and  I  too 
could  say  nothing  more. 

A  silence  followed.  I  still  held  her  hand 
and  looked  at  her.  She  sat  as  before,  shrinking 
together,  breathing  with  difficulty,  and  stealthily 

299 


ACIA 

biting  her  lower  lip  to  keep  back  the  rising  tears. 
...  I  looked  at  her ;  there  was  something 
touchingly  helpless  in  her  timid  passivity ;  it 
seemed  as  though  she  had  been  so  exhausted 
she  had  hardly  reached  the  chair,  and  had 
simply  fallen  on  it.    My  heart  began  to  melt . . , 

*  Acia/  I  said  hardly  audibly  .  .  . 

She  slowly  lifted  her  eyes  to  me.  .  .  .  Oh, 
the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  loves — who  can 
describe  them  ?  They  were  supplicating,  those 
eyes,  they  were  confiding,  questioning,  sur- 
rendering ...  I  could  not  resist  their  fascination. 
A  subtle  flame  passed  all  through  me  with 
tingling  shocks  ;  I  bent  down  and  pressed  my 
lips  to  her  hand.  .  .  . 

I  heard  a  quivering  sound,  like  a  broken  sigh 
and  I  felt  on  my  hair  the  touch  of  a  feeble  hand 
shaking  like  a  leaf.  I  raised  my  head  and 
looked  at  her  face.  How  transformed  it  was  all 
of  a  sudden.  The  expression  of  terror  had 
vanished  from  it,  her  eyes  looked  far  away  and 
drew  me  after  them,  her  lips  were  slightly 
parted,  her  forehead  was  white  as  marble,  and 
her  curls  floated  back  as  though  the  wind  had 
stirred  them.  I  forgot  everything,  I  drew  her 
to  me,  her  hand  yielded  unresistingly,  her  whole 
body  followed  her  hand,  the  shawl  fell  from  her 
shoulders,  and  her  head  lay  softly  on  my  breast, 
lay  under  my  burning  lips.  .  .  , 

'Yours' .  .  .  she  murmured,  hardly  above  a 
breath. 

300 


ACTA 

My  arms  were  slipping  round  her  waist  .  ,  , 
I  But  suddenly  the  thought  of  Gagin  flashed  like 
lightning  before  me.  'What  are  we  doing/  I 
cried,  abruptly  moving  back  .  .  .*  Your  brother 
.  .  .  why,  he  knows  everything.  .  .  .  He  knows 
I  am  with  you/ 

Acia  sank  back  on  her  chair. 

*Yes,'  I  went  on,  getting  up  and  walking  to 
the  other  end  of  the  room.  'Your  brother 
knows  all  about  it  ...  I  had  to  tell  him.'  .  .  . 

*  You  had  to  ? '  she  articulated  thickly.  She 
could  not,  it  seemed,  recover  herself,  and  hardly 
understood  me. 

'  Yes,  yes,'  I  repeated  with  a  sort  of  exaspera- 
tion, 'and  it's  all  your  fault,  your  fault.  What 
did  you  betray  your  secret  for  ?  Who  forced 
you  to  tell  your  brother?  He  has  been  with 
me  to-day,  and  told  me  what  you  said  to  him.' 
I  tried  not  to  look  at  Acia,  and  kept  walking 
with  long  strides  up  and  down  the  room.  '  Now 
everything  is  over,  everything.' 

Acia  tried  to  get  up  from  her  chair. 

'Stay,'  I  cried,  'stay,  I  implore  you.  You 
have  to  do  with  an  honourable  man — yes,  an 
honourable  man.  But,  in  Heaven's  name,  what 
upset  you  ?  Did  you  notice  any  change  in 
me?  But  I  could  not  hide  my  feelings  from 
your  brother  when  he  came  to  me  to-day.' 

'  Why  am  I  talking  like  this  ? '  I  was  thinking 
inwardly,  and  the  idea  that  I  was  an  immoral 
liar,  that  Gagin   knew  of  our   interview,  that 

301 


ACTA 

everything  was  spoilt,  exposed — seemed  buzzing 
persistently  in  my  head. 

*  I  didn't  call  my  brother' — I  heard  a  fright- 
ened whisper  from  Ada:  *he  came  of  him- 
self/ 

*  See  what  you  have  done/ 1  persisted.  *  Now 
you  want  to  go  away.  .  .  .' 

'Yes,  I  must  go  away,*  she  murmured  in  the 
same  soft  voice.  *I  only  asked  you  to  come 
here  to  say  good-bye.' 

*  And  do  you  suppose,'  I  retorted,  *it  will  be 
easy  for  me  to  part  with  you  ? ' 

*But  what  did  you  tell  my  brother  for?' 
Acia  said,  in  perplexity. 

*I  tell  you — I  could  not  do  otherwise.  If 
you  had  not  yourself  betrayed  yourself  .  .  .' 

*  I  locked  myself  in  my  room,'  she  answered 
simply.  *  I  did  not  know  the  landlady  had 
another  key.  .  .  / 

This  innocent  apology  on  her  lips  at  such  a 
moment  almost  infuriated  me  at  the  time  .  .  . 
and  now  I  cannot  think  of  it  without  emotion. 
Poor,  honest,  truthful  child  ! 

*  And  now  everything 's  at  an  end  !  *  I  began 
again,  'everything.  Now  we  shall  have  to 
part.'  I  stole  a  look  at  Acia.  .  .  .  Her  face 
had  quickly  flushed  crimson.  She  was,  I  felt  it, 
both  ashamed  and  afraid.  I  went  on  walking 
and  talking  as  though  in  delirium.  *You  did 
not  let  the  feeling  develop  which  had  begun 
to  grow  ;   you  have  broken  off  our  relations 

302 


[ 


ACIA 

yrourself ;  you  had  no  confidence  in  me ;  you 
doubted  me.  .  .  / 

While  I  was  talking,  Acia  bent  more  and 
more  forward,  and  suddenly  slid  on  her  knees, 
dropped  her  head  on  her  arms,  and  began 
sobbing.  I  ran  up  to  her  and  tried  to  lift 
her  up,  but  she  would  not  let  me.  I  can't 
bear  women's  tears  ;  at  the  sight  of  them  I 
am  at  my  wits'  end  at  once. 

'Anna  Nikolaevna,  Acia,'  I  kept  repeating, 
'  please,  I  implore  you,  for  God's  sake,  stop.'  .  .  . 
I  took  her  hand  again.  .  .  . 

But,  to  my  immense  astonishment  she  sud- 
denly jumped  up,  rushed  with  lightning  swift- 
f  ness  to  the  door,  and  vanished.  .  .  . 

When,  a  few  minutes  later,  Frau  Luise  came 
into  the  room  I  was  still  standing  in  the  very 
middle  of  it,  as  it  were,  thunderstruck.  I  could 
not  believe  this  interview  could  possibly  have 
come  to  such  a  quick,  such  a  stupid  end,  when 
I  had  not  said  a  hundredth  part  of  what  I 
wanted  to  say,  and  what  I  ought  to  have  said, 
when  I  did  not  know  myself  in  what  way  it 
would  be  concluded.  .  .  . 

*  Is  Fraiilein  gone  ? '  Frau  Luise  asked  me, 
raising  her  yellow  eyebrows  right  up  to  her 
false  front. 

I  stared  at  her  like  a  fool,  and  went  away. 


3^3 


V 

li 


XVII 

I  MADE  my  way  out  of  the  town  and  struck 
out  straight  into  the  open  country.  I  was  de- 
voured by  anger,  frenzied  anger.  I  hurled 
reproaches  at  myself.  How  was  it  I  had 
not  seen  the  reason  that  had  forced  Acia  to 
change  the  place  of  our  meeting ;  how  was  it 
I  did  not  appreciate  what  it  must  have  cost 
her  to  go  to  that  old  woman  ;  how  was  it  I 
had  not  kept  her?  Alone  with  her,  in  that  dim, 
half-dark  room  I  had  had  the  force,  I  had  had  - 
the  heart  to  repulse  her,  even  to  reproach  her. 
.  .  .  Now  her  image  simply  pursued  me.  I 
begged  her  forgiveness.  The  thought  of  that 
pale  face,  those  wet  and  timid  eyes,  of  her 
loose  hair  falling  on  the  drooping  neck,  the 
light  touch  of  her  head  against  my  breast 
maddened  me.  '  Yours ' — I  heard  her  whisper. 
'  I  acted  from  conscientious  motives,'  I  assured 
myself  .  .  .  Not  true !  Did  I  really  desire 
such  a  termination  ?  Was  I  capable  of  part- 
ing from  her?  Could  I  really  do  without 
her? 

304 


i 


ACIA 

*  Madman  !  madman  ! '  I  repeated  with  ex- 
asperation. .  .  . 

Meanwhile  night  was  coming  on.  I  walked 
with  long  strides  towards  the  house  where  Acia 
lived. 


305 


XVIII 

Gagin  came  out  to  meet  me 

'Have  you  seen  my  sister?'  he  shouted  to 
me  while  I  was  still  some  distance  off. 

*  Why,  isn't  she  at  home  ?  I  asked. 
'  No.' 

'  She  hasn't  come  back  ? ' 
'  No.     I  was  in   fault,'  Gagin  went  on.     *  I 

couldn't  restrain  myself.  Contrary  to  our  agree- 
ment, I  went  to  the  chapel ;  she  was  not  there  ; 
didn't  she  come,  then  ? ' 

*  She  hasn't  been  at  the  chapel  ?  * 

*  And  you  haven't  seen  her?' 
I  was  obliged  to  admit  I  had  seen  her. 
'  Where  ? ' 

*  At  Frau  Luise's.     I  parted  from  her  an  hour     ] 
ago,'  I  added.    '  I  felt  sure  she  had  come  home.'     j 

'We  will  wait  a  little,'  said  Gagin.  ! 

We  went  into  the  house  and  sat  down  near     * 
each  other.    We  were  silent.    We  both  felt  very     1 
uncomfortable.     We  were  continually  looking 
round,  staring  at  the  door,  listening.     At  last     r 
Gagin  got  up. 

*  Oh,  this  is  beyond  anything  !'  he  cried.   *  My 

306 


ACIA 

leart  's  in  my  mouth.  She  '11  be  the  death  of 
ne,  by  God  !  .  .  .  Let 's  go  and  look  for  her/ 

We  went  out.  It  was  quite  dark  by  now, 
DUtside. 

'  What  did  you  talk  about  to  her  ?  *  Gagin 
isked  me,  as  he  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes. 

'  I  only  saw  her  for  five  minutes,'  I  answered. 
I  talked  to  her  as  we  agreed.' 

'  Do  you  know  what  ? '  he  replied,  *  it 's  better 
or  us  to  separate.  In  that  way  we  are  more 
ikely  to  come  across  her  before  long.  In  any 
;ase  come  back  here  within  an  hour.' 


307 


XIX 

I  WENT  hurriedly  down  from  the  vineyard 
and  rushed  into  the  town.  I  walked  rapidly 
through  all  the  streets,  looked  in  all  directions, 
even  at  Frau  Luise's  windows,  went  back  to  the 
Rhine,  and  ran  along  the  bank.  .  .  .  From  time 
to  time  I  was  met  by  women's  figures,  but  Acia 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  There  was  no  anger 
gnawing  at  my  heart  now.  I  was  tortured  by 
a  secret  terror,  and  it  was  not  only  terror  that 
I  felt  .  .  .  no,  I  felt  remorse,  the  most  intense 
regret,  and  love, — yes !  the  tenderest  love.  I 
wrung  my  hands.  I  called  *  Acia '  through  the 
falling  darkness  of  the  night,  first  in  a  low 
voice,  then  louder  and  louder ;  I  repeated  a 
hundred  times  over  that  I  loved  her.  I  vowed 
I  would  never  part  from  her.  I  would  have 
given  everything  in  the  world  to  hold  her  cold 
hand  again,  to  hear  again  her  soft  voice,  to  see 
her  again  before  me.  .  .  .  She  had  been  so  near, 
she  had  come  to  me,  her  mind  perfectly  made 
up,  in  perfect  innocence  of  heart  and  feelings, 
she  had  offered  me  her  unsullied  youth  .  .  .  and 
I  had  not  folded  her  to  my  breast,  I  had  robbed 

308 


ACTA 

myself  of  the  bliss  of  watching  her  sweet  face 
blossom  with  delight  and  the  peace  of  rapture. 
.  .  .  This  thought  drove  me  out  of  my  mind. 

*  Where  can  she  have  gone  ?  What  can  she 
have  done  with  herself?'  I  cried  in  an  agony 
of  helpless  despair.  ...  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
something  white  on  the  very  edge  of  the  river. 
I  knew  the  place ;  there  stood  there,  over  the 
tomb  of  a  man  who  had  been  drowned  seventy 
years  ago,  a  stone  cross  half-buried  in  the 
ground,  bearing  an  old  inscription.  My  heart 
sank  ...  I  ran  up  to  the  cross  ;  the  white  figure 
vanished.  I  shouted  *  Acia  ! '  I  felt  frightened 
myself  by  my  uncanny  voice,  but  no  one 
called  back. 

I  resolved  to  go  and  see  whether  Gagin  had 
found  her. 


3<59 


XX 


As  I  climbed  swiftly  up  the  vineyard  path  I 
caught  sight  of  a  light  in  Acia's  room.  .  .  . 
This  reassured  me  a  little. 

I  went  up  to  the  house.  The  door  below 
was  fastened.  I  knocked.  A  window  on  the 
ground  floor  was  cautiously  opened,  and  Gagin's 
head  appeared. 

*  Have  you  found  her  ? '  I  asked. 

'She  has  come  back,'  he  answered  in  a 
whisper.  'She  is  in  her  own  room  undress- 
ing.    Everything  is  all  right' 

'  Thank  God  1 '  I  cried,  in  an  indescribable 
rush  of  joy.  *  Thank  God  !  now  everything  is 
right.  But  you  know  we  must  have  another 
talk.' 

*  Another  time,'  he  replied,  softly  drawing  the 
casement  towards  him.  '  Another  time  ;  but 
now  good-bye.' 

*  Till  to-morrow,'  I  said.  *  To-morrow  every- 
thing shall  be  arranged.' 

*  Good-bye,'  repeated  Gagin.  The  window 
was  closed.  I  was  on  the  point  of  knocking 
at  the  window.     I  was  on  the  point  of  telling 

310 


1 


ACTA 

Gagin  there  and  then  that  I  wanted  to  ask  him 
for  his  sister's  hand.  But  such  a  proposal  at 
such  a  time.  ...  *  To-morrow,'  I  reflected, 
*  to-morrow  I  shall  be  happy.  .  .  .' 

To-morrow  I  shall  be  happy  !  Happiness  has 
no  to-morrow,  no  yesterday;  it  thinks  not 
on  the  past,  and  dreams  not  of  the  future ; 
it  has  the  present — not  a  day  even — a  moment. 

I  don't  remember  how  I  got  to  Z.  It  was 
not  my  legs  that  carried  me,  nor  a  boat  that 
ferried  me  across ;  I  felt  that  I  was  borne 
along  by  great,  mighty  wings.  I  passed  a  bush 
where  a  nightingale  was  singing.  I  stopped 
and  listened  long;  I  fancied  it  sang  my  love 
and  happiness, 


311 


XXI 

When  next  morning  I  began  to  approach  the 
little  house  I  knew  so  well,  I  was  struck  with 
one  circumstance ;  all  the  windows  in  it  were 
open,  and  the  door  too  stood  open ;  some  bits 
of  paper  were  lying  about  in  front  of  the  door- 
way ;  a  maidservant  appeared  with  a  broom 
at  the  door. 

I  went  up  to  her.  .  .  . 

*  They  are  gone ! '  she  bawled,  before  I  had 
time  to  inquire  whether  Gagin  was  at  home. 

'Gone?'  ...  I  repeated.  'What  do  you 
mean  by  gone  ?     Where  ?  * 

'  They  went  away  this  morning  at  six  o'clock, 
and  didn't  say  where.  Wait  a  minute,  I  believe 
you  're  Mr.  N ,  aren't  you  ?  ' 

'  I  'm  Mr.  N ,  yes.' 

'The  mistress  has  a  letter  for  you.'  The 
maid  went  up-stairs  and  returned  with  a  letter. 
'  Here  it  is,  if  you  please,  sir.' 

'  But  it 's  impossible. .  .  .  how  can  it  be  ? ' .  .  . 
I  was  beginning.  The  servant  stared  blankly 
at  me,  and  began  sweeping. 

I  opened  the  letter.     Gagin  had  written  it ; 

312 


ACIA 

there  was  not  one  word  from  Acia.  He  began 
with  begging  me  not  to  be  angry  at  his  sudden 
departure ;  he  felt  sure  that,  on  mature  con- 
sideration, I  should  approve  of  his  decision. 
He  could  find  no  other  way  out  of  a  position 
which  might  become  difficult  and  dangerous. 
*  Yesterday  evening,'  he  wrote,  *  while  we  were 
both  waiting  in  silence  for  Acia,  I  realised 
conclusively  the  necessity  of  separation.  There 
are  prejudices  I  respect ;  I  can  understand 
that  it's  impossible  for  you  to  marry  Acia. 
She  has  told  me  everything ;  for  the  sake  of 
her  peace  of  mind,  I  was  bound  to  yield  to  her 
reiterated  urgent  entreaties.'  At  the  end  of 
the  letter  he  expressed  his  regret  that  our 
acquaintance  had  come  to  such  a  speedy 
termination,  wished  me  every  happiness,  shook 
my  hand  in  friendship,  and  besought  me  not  to 
try  to  seek  them  out. 

'What  prejudices?'  I  cried  aloud,  as  though 
he  could  hear  me ;  *  what  rubbish  !  What 
right  has  he  to  snatch  her  from  me?  .  .  .'  I 
clutched  at  my  head. 

The  servant  began  loudly  calling  for  her 
mistress ;  her  alarm  forced  me  to  control  my- 
self. One  idea  was  aflame  within  me ;  to  find 
them,  to  find  them  wherever  they  might  be. 
To  accept  this  blow,  to  resign  myself  to  such  a 
calamity  was  impossible.  I  learnt  from  the 
landlady  that  they  had  got  on  to  a  steamer  at 
six  o'clock   in  the  morning,  and  were  going 

313 


ACTA 

down  the  Rhine.  I  went  to  the  ticket-office ; 
there  I  was  told  they  had  taken  tickets  for 
Cologne.  I  was  going  home  to  pack  up  at 
once  and  follow  them.  I  happened  to  pass  the 
house  of  Frau  Luise.  .  .  .  S^^denly  I  heard 
some  one  calling  me.  I  raised  my  head,  and  at 
the  window  of  the  very  room  where  I  had  met 
Acia  the  day  before,  I  saw  the  burgomaster's 
widow.  She  smiled  her  loathsome  smile,  and 
called  me.  I  turned  away,  and  was  going  on ; 
but  she  called  after  me  that  she  had  something 
for  me.  These  words  brought  me  to  a  halt, 
and  I  went  into  her  house.  How  can  I 
describe  my  feelings  when  I  saw  that  room 
again?  .  .  . 

'  By  rights,'  began  the  old  woman,  showing 
me  a  little  note  ;  *  I  oughtn't  to  have  given  you 
this  unless  you  'd  come  to  me  of  your  own 
accord,  but  you  are  such  a  fine  young  man. 
Take  it.' 

I  took  the  note. 

On  a  tiny  scrap  of  paper  stood  the  following 
words,  hurriedly  scribbled  in  pencil : 

*  Good-bye,  we  shall  not  see  each  other 
again.  It  is  not  through  pride  that  I  'm  going 
away — no,  I  can't  help  it.  Yesterday  when  I 
was  crying  before  you,  if  you  had  said  one 
word  to  me,  only  one  word — I  should  have 
stayed.  You  did  not  say  it.  It  seems  it  is 
better  so  .  .  .  Good-bye  for  ever ! ' 

One   word  .  .  .  Oh,   madman   that   I   was! 

314 


ACIA 

That  word  ...  I  had  repeated  it  the  night 
before  with  tears,  I  had  flung  it  to  the  wind,  I 
had  said  it  over  and  over  again  among  the 
empty  fields  .  .  .  ,but  I  did  not  say  it  to  her, 
I  did  not  tell  fter  I  loved  her  .  I-  .  Indeed,  I 
could  not  have  uttered  that  word  then.  When 
I  met  her  in  that  fatal  room,  I  had  as  yet  no 
clear  consciousness  of  my  love ;  it  had  not 
fully  awakened  even  when  I  was  sitting  with 
her  brother  in  senseless  and  burdensome 
silence  ...  it  flamed  up  with  irrepressible  force 
only  a  few  instants  later,  when,  terrified  by 
the  possibility  of  misfortune,  I  began  to  seek 
and  call  her  .  .  .  but  then  it  was  already  too 
late.  '  But  that 's  impossible  ! '  I  shall  be  told  ; 
I  don't  know  whether  it's  possible,  I  know 
that  it 's  the  truth.  Acia  would  not  have  gone 
away  if  there  had  been  the  faintest  shade  of 
coquetry  in  her,  and  if  her  position  had  not 
been  a  false  one.  She  could  not  put  up  with 
what  any  other  girl  would  have  endured ;  I 
did  not  realise  that.  My  evil  genius  had 
arrested  an  avowal  on  my  lips  at  my  last 
interview  with  Gagin  at  the  darkened  window, 
and  the  last  thread  I  might  have  caught  at, 
had  slipped  out  of  my  fingers. 

The  same  day  I  went  back  with  my  port- 
manteau packed,  to  L.,  and  started  for  Col- 
ogne. I  remember  the  steamer  was  already  off, 
and  I  was  taking  a  mental  farewell  of  those 
streets,  all  those  spots  which  I  was  never  to 

315 


/^ 


ACTA 


forget  —  when  I  caught  sight  of  Hannchen. 
She  was  sitting  on  a  seat  near  the  river.  Her 
face  was  pale  but  not  sad  ;  a  handsome  ypung 
fellow  was  standing  beside  her,  laughing  and 
telling  her  some  story ;  while  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Rhine  my  little  Madonna  peeped  out  of 
the  green  of  the  old  ash-tree  as  mournfully  as 
ever. 


I 


I 


316 


XXII 

In  Cologne  I  came  upon  traces  of  the  Gaglns ; 
I  found  out  they  had  gone  'to  London;  I 
pushed  on  in  pursuit  of  them  ;  but  in  London 
all  my  researches  were  in  vain.  It  was  long 
before  I  would  resign  myself,  for  a  long  while 
I  persevered,  but  I  was  obliged,  at  last,  to  give 
up  all  hope  of  coming  across  them. 

And  I  never  saw  them  again — I  never  saw 
Acia.  Vague  rumours  reached  me  about  him, 
but  she  had  vanished  for  ever  for  me.  I  don't 
even  know  whether  she  is  alive.  One  day,  a 
few  years  later,  in  a  railway  carriage  abroad, 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woman,  whose  face 
vividly  recalled  those  features  I  could  never 
forget  .  .  .  but  I  was  most  likely  deceived  by 
a  chance  resemblance.  Acia  remained  in  my 
memory  a  little  girl  such  as  I  had  known  her 
at  the  best  time  of  my  life,  as  I  saw  her  the 
last  time,  leaning  against  the  back  of  a  low 
wooden  chair. 

But  I  must  own  I  did  not  grieve  over-long 
for  her ;  I  even  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
fate  had  done  all  for  the  best,  in  not  uniting 

317 


ACIA 

me  to  Acia  ;  I  consoled  myself  with  the  reflec- 
tion that  I  should  probably  not  have  been 
happy  with  such  a  wife.  I  was  young  then — 
and  the  future,  the  brief,  swiftly-passing  future 
seemed  boundless  to  me  then.  Could  not  what 
had  been  be  repeated,  I  thought,  and  better, 
fairer  still  ?  .  .  .  I  got  to  know  other  women — 
but  the  feeling  Acia  had  aroused  in  me,  that 
intense,  tender,  deep  feeling  has  never  come 
again.  No !  no  eyes  have  for  me  taken  the 
place  of  those  that  were  once  turned  with  love 
upon  my  eyes,  to  no  heart,  pressed  to  my 
breast,  has  my  heart  responded  with  such 
joyous  sweet  emotion  !  Condemned  as  I  have 
been  to  a  solitary  life,  without  ties  or  family, 
I  have  led  a  dreary  existence ;  but  I  keep  as 
sacred  relics,  her  little  notes  and  the  dry 
geranium,  the  flower  she  threw  me  once  out  of 
the  window.  It  still  retains  a  faint  scent,  while 
the  hand  that  gave  it,  the  hand  I  only  once 
pressed  to  my  lips,  has  perhaps  long  since 
decayed  in  the  grave  .  .  ,  And  I  myself,  what 
has  become  of  me?  What  is  left  of  me,  of 
those  blissful,  heart-stirring  days,  of  those 
winged  hopes  and  aspirations?  The  faint 
fragrance  of  an  insignificant  plant  outlives  all 
man's  joys  and  sorrows — outlives  man  himself. 

1857. 


318 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


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